Droplets
by The Prophet Lemonade
Summary: Jean Kirschtein is not entirely sure why they need someone to clean the pool when no-one ever seems to swim in the darn thing, but when his socialite mother just can't stop ogling the new pool boy, Jean realises she might not be the only one. Fluff, angst, dysfunctional families, and mainly shirtless Marco. Multi chapter AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**: It's been a while since I attempted a multi-chapter fic, but these plot bunnies have been running rampant in my head for the duration of Easter break. So here we go.  
I can't even remember how this idea started. Probably the thought of Jean being increasingly distracted at how Marco's freckles seem to pool in the small of his back. Or something. Maybe I just wanted to torture poor Jean with the thought of his freckled angel semi-naked most of the time.  
I just had to get this out. Hopefully it'll go places... I have pretty much a general direction for the rest of the story. I hope you've enjoyed the beginning. Jean's a fun character to (attempt) to write.  
All feedback is lovingly appreciated.

**Chapter One:** Just Let Me Watch _Breaking Bad_ Already 

* * *

"_Droplets, droplets: We are all identical drips and drops of people, hovering, waiting to be tipped, waiting for someone to show us the way, to pour us down a path._"

– Lauren Oliver, Pandemonium

To tell you the truth, I'm not even sure why we have the pool. I don't swim in it. My dad doesn't swim in it (or isn't allowed to swim in it, over mom's fear of the neighbours seeing how fat he's become in his middle age). And I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen my mom swim in it over the past few summers – all times when the twenty-something year old neighbour just happened to be trimming the hedges that connected our back yard to his.

So, I'm especially unsure why, exactly, mom thinks it's necessary that she needs to hire a pool cleaner to clean said never-swum-in pool.

Apparently, it's because the hedge likes to shed, and the leaves block the drain. Yeah, okay. I'm pretty sure I can see a grand total of three leaves floating in the water, from my perch on the kitchen bar stool. I drum my fingers against my temple, watching one leaf drift into the shallows, beaching itself upon the blue-tiled steps. It's May. The hedge shouldn't even be shedding at this time of year. Jesus.

But when you've got money, supposedly the logical thing to do is to spend it all on unnecessary commodities that we probably – definitely – don't need. My mom's pretty damn good at that.

Okay, so maybe it's nice being spoiled once in a while. I'm not gonna lie about that – especially since dad brought back the new Xbox One the other week, to make up for not having made a single dinner at home for the past ten days. Not that I really noticed anyway. He couldn't care less about his home life; I know for a fact he's banging his secretary every night at the office. The blonde ditz has been stupid enough to call the house phone on more than one occasion whilst I've been here.

"Jean," I hear my mom croon as she wafts into the kitchen in sky-high black heels, her ankles wobbling. She looks ridiculous, as usual, the epitome of a once-upon-a-time trophy wife, her lips and forehead strained with Botox. "Jeeaaan, darling, do you have twenty dollars on you? I forgot to go to the ATM this morning."

I roll my eyes, and tug my wallet from the back pocket of my jeans; the mottled leather still stinks of tanning chemicals, despite having had the thing for almost a month now. There was nothing wrong with my old wallet, of course – but mom insisted the old one was ugly. It's _Hugo Boss_ or the highway, in this family.

I have two, crumpled tens folded up; I hold them out to my mom, who plucks them from my fingers with her newly-buffed dark red talons.

"Thank you dear – I totally forgot to get any cash to pay the pool cleaner today," she says, extending her vowels in a dramatic fashion. From the drawer adjacent to the stool I'm slumped on, she pulls out a plain envelope, tucks away the money, and presses it closed. In her near-illegible scrawl, she pens something along the lines of: _Trost Pool Servicing & Repair_.

The summers in Trost are pretty fucking hot, and pretty much start come the middle of April. I'm sure most houses in this neighbourhood have a pool – it can't be a bad business to be in at this time of the year, that's for sure. Although, saying that, I can't quite remember at what point last year's pool boy just stopped coming. It was probably something to do with the goo-goo eyes that my mom had the tendency of throwing his way, and my dad – the big, fucking hypocrite – probably picked up on that.

I can't even remember what that pool boy looked like, to be honest. Last summer was a bit of a drag, what with all the studying for my high school finals, and then the following burn out after all that intensive brain-cramming, which lasted for pretty much all of July and August. I remember I watched a fuckload of TV that summer – mainly because, hey, the couch was pretty fucking comfy and I couldn't really find it in myself to actually leave it, but also, because it was the best place to be to avoid my mom's ridiculous attempts at flirting with said pool boy. Yeah, that was kinda fucking embarrassing. The "kinda" is an understatement.

But hey, I managed to marathon the first four seasons of _Breaking Bad_ in like, three weeks, because of that. So all was not lost.

I start daydreaming about the epic finale of the fifth season whilst my mom potters around the kitchen, placing the envelope on the marble counter-top right next to me. She spots her reflection in the window, and begins to plump up her perm – I sigh, deliberately loudly.

"What?" she hums, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

I spin around on the bar stool to face her, resting my elbow on the counter-top, and my chin in my hands.

"_Mom_," I say, laying it on flatly. Maybe this is why we have the pool. As an excuse for mom to enact a subtle form of revenge on the husband she's-not-quite-sure is cheating on her, by fluttering her false eyelashes at whatever tanned, speedo-wearing college-dropout appears to unclog the pool drain of non-existent hedge leaves. Right.

"Oh Jean, come off it," she replies with a sigh, tucking an ash-blonde curl behind her ear, watching me from the corner of her eye. Mum's hair colour is the same as mine (at least, the top of mine), save hers is not natural. I reckon she only dyes it that colour because of the simple fact that I look nothing like my dad. He's stocky, and round, with patchy, dark hair. I'm rather lanky, and I guess my face is more oval than my dad's, and my eyes a lot lighter. She wants people to think that I take after one of them, at least.

Satisfied with her reflection, mom toddles across to the glass cabinet, and I return my stare to the stillness of the pool, the _clip-clip_ of her heels rattling in my ears. The backyard gate squeaks open, as a collection of large nets, brushes and hoses staggers into a back yard (accompanied by, of course, the person struggling to hold all of this crap in a pair of tanned, freckled, clumsy arms, half covered by the horrific cornflower blue of a uniform polo shirt).

"Pool boy's here," I say categorically, pushing myself away from the counter top abruptly. Fifteen minutes early, as well. Time to make a quick exit. Maybe I'll rewatch the Breaking bad finale, actually.

"Oh no, Jean, wait a second," my mum calls, setting a pair of crystal tumblers down on the marble surface. "Can you fetch the lemonade from the fridge, and pour a couple glasses?" She waddles over to the back door, carefully grasping the doorknob so as not to break one of her stupid nails. "Don't forget ice, okay?"

I stare at the door blankly as she goes to greet the newest victim to her predatory cougar-ness, rolling my tongue in my mouth incredulously. Thanks, mom. Really appreciate it.

I guess Walter White will have to wait.

I trudge over the fridge – true enough, a pitcher of mom's lemonade is resting in the inside of the door. I grab a can of Coke for myself, and kick the door shut with my foot, probably with more aggression than needed.

As I pour the lemonade into the two glasses, I try to pull the tab on my Coke can with one hand – of course, the lemonade sloshes over the side of the glass whilst my attention is elsewhere. A _fuck _or two slips out beneath my breath, and I lunge for the paper towels.

I guess you're wondering: Jean, why is such a handsome, charismatic, awesome guy like you kicking around at home, performing chores for his toy-boy desperate mom, when you should be out doing what normal nineteen-year-old university students do during a weekend (i.e. not studying).

Well let me tell you two things. Firstly, I'm pretty sure most university students equally prefer to lounge about the house all day doing pretty much fuck all.

But secondly, and this is kinda shameful to admit, I haven't really spoken to any of my "friends" since half way through twelfth grade. And it may or may not have had something to do with the fact that I might have gotten a little trigger-happy with my fists in a certain Eren Jaeger's face. He's a dick, okay? He deserved it.

I'd much rather spend the day with mom than receive death glares from him and his posse. (Even if Mikasa is still absolutely smoking hot. Yeah.)

My eyebrows knit themselves into a deeper frown than usual, as my eyes roam over the photos plastered to the front of the fridge – the one of me, Connie and Sasha is still there, from when we took that road trip down south two summers ago. That was a good time. It kinda sucks that they avoid me too now, even if we do go to the same university, and I do happen to take three of the same classes as Connie.

I take another disgruntled swig of my Coke, as I toss the lemonade-soaked paper towel towards the trash. It's cool. I've survived almost this entire first year of uni without talking to them. And I'm fine. Just peachy.

From the corner of my eye, I see mom engaged in an animated conversation with the new pool boy; she does that stupid, giddy little laugh, hiding her teeth coyly behind a well-manicured hand. I roll my eyes, and suck up my chagrin, taking one glass of lemonade in each hand.

"Oh Jean, there you are!" my mom coos, waving me over across the lawn as I emerge from the shelter of the kitchen, shoulders tightly hunched. "Come over here and meet Marco!"

They're on a first name basis already. Wow, you move fast mom.

As I reach her, she procures both glasses from my hands, handing one out to the pool boy, and keeping one to herself.

"You must be thirsty, it's soooo hot out today," she smiles insipidly, fluttering her eyelashes against her cheeks. "I made some lemonade – would you like some?"

"Oh… yes please," the pool boy replies, running a hand through his shallow, black undercut bashfully, "That's awfully thoughtful of you, Mrs Kirschtein."

I roll my eyes, and shove my hands deep into my jean pockets, hoping to be able to slink away as soon as possible. Leave my mom ample flirting time, of course. And not to mention that the sun is really, _fucking_ hot today.

"Please, you can call me Céline," she chuckles, placing a hand on my shoulder and drawing me closer to her. "And this is my son, Jean." The looks she shoots me is one that I'm pretty used to. Gritting my teeth, I extend a rigid hand. Do I really have to be doing this? I couldn't care less about mom's newest boy-toy to be.

"Marco, right?" I offered blankly, moving my gaze to look the taller guy in the face. My eyes are instantly drawn to the array of freckles scattered across his sun-tanned face, four of which, in particular, draw a straight line across the bridge of his nose.

Too much time in the sun, much.

Marco smiles blindingly, and I can practically see a sparkle spring from his white teeth. He shakes my hand firmly.

"Yep, that's right," he grins. "Nice to meet you, Jean." His tone is far too chipper for my liking. That'll soon change, believe me. He doesn't know what he's got himself into yet.

My mom squeezes my shoulder a little tighter as I drop my hand to my side.

"Jean doesn't get out much, so he'll probably be around most of the time, especially once the summer break comes." Thanks, mom. Way to big up your own son. "So, if you need anything, and I'm not here, you can probably find him."

I glare down at the lawn, practically drilling holes in the ground with my imaginary laser vision. I mentally instruct my mom to let me go and hermit myself in the lounge for the rest of the afternoon. Maybe she gets the impression from the rigidity of my stance, because she drops her arm.

"Alright then, get back to whatever it is you do all day." Great. Walter White, here I come.

My steps only falter ever so slightly as Marco raises his glass of lemonade and calls over my shoulder: "Hey, thanks for the lemonade, Jean!"

I think I mutter a: "don't mention it" under a gruff breath, but I don't look back, until my feet meet the cool surface of the kitchen floor. I retrieve my half-finished Coke and take a long swing, watching as my mom teeters over to the pool shed, seemingly pointing out the combination to the padlock that keeps the wooden doors closed.

I raise the Coke can to the window, in a mock toast. Good luck to you, Marco.

* * *

I watch the _Breaking Bad_ finale whilst comfortably reclined on the couch, with the air con on full blast. It's just as epic as I remember. I can't help but tap out the rhythm of Badfinger's _Baby Blue_ into the couch cushions as Walt finally succumbs to his bullet wound. Great tune.

I had to shut the windows around half way through though, because mom's incessant nattering had managed to reach all the way across the yard, and I wasn't sure how much more of Marco's mildly awkward laughter I could take.

Almost as soon as the credits role, the phone rings, the shrill tring making me jump approximately six metres into the air, sending the empty Coke can that was sitting on my chest halfway across the room. Ungracefully, I roll (read: fall) off the couch, and reach for the handset on the end table, pressing it to my ear as I lie, face-first, on the wooden flooring.

"Hello?" I ask awkwardly, wriggling to free my other arm from beneath me.

"Hiii, is Mr Kirschtein there?," comes the high-pitched, girly trill, which I have already come to find causes me a migraine. "It's Charlotte, from the office."

"You know you're so lucky my mom doesn't pick up when you call here," I reply, in a dead-pan. I start to pluck at the fibres of the furry, white rug beneath the coffee table. "Hasn't my dad told you to stop calling him here already?"

I think the anger has long since subsided – mostly all I feel is a mix of irritation at my dad for being such a careless and insensitive moron, and guilt for the fact I'm not exactly helping my mom out in discovering that her husband is a cheating bag of shit-for-brains.

"Call my dad on his mobile if you want to get laid that badly," I add, briskly, not waiting for a reply as I slam the phone back into its cradle. I lay for a little while staring at the grain in the floor. I can only think I look fucking ridiculous.

"Who was that?" my mom's voice echoes through the house, accompanied by the clicking of her heels on the kitchen floor. With a groan, I pull myself up onto my knees, and then use the edge of the couch to lever myself upright. I stretch my arms above my head, and my joints click.

"Double-glazing bastards again," I call back, lying easily. It's either windows, or it's central-heating salesmen. And geez, it shouldn't be this easy to lie to her face. I can't help but feel the pang of guilt fall heavily into the pit of my stomach.

"Ugh, when will they learn," my mom sighs, as I make my way back into the kitchen, rolling my shoulders some more to relieve the tension resulted from laying so long without moving. She has her back to me, loading the two, empty crystal tumblers into the dishwasher. "Everyone's going to have their windows open in this weather, anyway! Why would you even want double-glazing?"

I resume my perch upon the bar stool once more, spinning on it absent-minded. I notice the white envelope has vanished from the counter-top.

"Pool boy finished already?"

"Oh yes, he didn't stay long," mom replies, shutting the dishwasher with a swing of her hips. "Apparently we've got a… chlorine imbalance? I think he said something like that. Anyway, he says he'll come back tomorrow and get that fixed for us. But I've got aerobics with the girls tomorrow, so you'll have to look out for him, and give him his payment when he's finished, okay? So that's no sleeping in 'til three tomorrow."

Oh gee, how fucking great.

"You that bored of him that you're dumping him on me already?" I jibe sarcastically, folding my arms across my chest. "Not young enough for you, mom?"

Mom makes a scoffing sound and rolls her eyes, mimicking my folded-arms as she leans back against the counter.

"Please Jean, I told you to stop saying things like that." I simply shrug.

* * *

I spend the rest of the day kicking around in my room, scrolling through a couple miles worth of news feed on my laptop, praying for the heat just to die down a little bit so I don't feel like I've been plastered into these jeans with my own sweat. (I refuse to wear shorts, okay? I look like an idiot in them.)

Every so often, my eyes drift over the messy pile of textbooks and course notes teetering over the edge of my desk, reminding me of the ever looming approach of my finals in just over a month and a half.

Man, am I looking forward to that being done and dusted. It's been months and I still don't understand most of my Philosophy coursework (I'm still not entirely sure what persuaded me to take that elective in the first place, if I'm honest). It's probably entirely my fault for the simple fact that I couldn't decide what major to pick. Still can't, if I'm honest. The sooner the summer break comes, the better. I can at least wallow in misery that's not university-related. Perfect.

I rummage through my desk drawer for the opened pack of Marlboro's that I know are buried there. Good thing my mom doesn't do the cleaning around here. She'd go ballistic if she founds these. (And the house keep tends not to go through my stuff anyway.)

I can't smoke in my room, so I get a leg up on my window and clamber out onto the roof, scrambling up over the slate-grey tiles to perch atop the gable. It's a decent enough place to sit – even if it does kill my balls sitting there for too long – because you can see most of Trost from here. The sea of identical, suburban roofs extends for block after block, but the far distance boasts the sky scrapers and office blocks of midtown, somewhere in which my dad's probably shagging his blonde secretary over a desk.

My Zippo takes a couple attempts to catch – that's something I probably do need a new one of – but soon I taste the sweet release of nicotine burning at the back of my throat. I inhale and exhale deeply a few times, letting the smoke delve all the way down into my lungs, and back up again. The ash falls away between my fingertips and rolls down the roof into the gutter.

My name is Jean Kirschtein. I'm nineteen years old. I'm a student at Trost University, and I'm failing Philosophy. I currently have no friends, and I like to angstly smoke cigarettes on the roof of my house. My dad is banging his secretary, and my mom probably wants to bang the new pool boy, but neither of them know. Only I know.

Welcome to my life.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Please read and review!  
Next time: Jean is forced to engage in conversation with another person his age. And actually, freckled pool boy isn't as bad as he expected?


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** A slightly longer chapter this time! It's still mainly exposition as I'm setting the scene and the main themes that I'm planning on exploring later on.  
What actually went down between Jean and Eren (that caused the others to ignore him) will be dealt with later in the story... but it's pretty important. I just don't want to reveal it yet.

I choose MCR as Marco's thing purely due to the general head cannon in the fandom that he likes them. My personal head cannon for Jean's music taste is 70s/80s classic rock - thus the Ramones thing. I imagine he's probably got a very large record collection.  
This chapter was fun to write! I hope it is fun to read too.  
I will continue to work hard and produce more chapters! There's lots of fun and awkward stuff to come (including Erwin in a speedo ?), so stay tuned.

**Chapter Two:** My Chemical Romance and Cougars?

* * *

By some terrific feat, I manage not to sleep in until three in the afternoon.

And by terrific feat, I am of course referring to the fact that the neighbour's Jack Russell decided that a fucking great idea would be to bark at the cat lounging on the roof of their conservatory, from the bright and early time of six. Six am. No good person should ever have to see that time on their own accord. Six am isn't even a time. It's a state of mind.

_My_ state of mind was pretty fucking grumpy, let me tell you that.

I was subject to _at least_ a year of incessant barking from next door, until the neighbours eventually pulled their mutt inside to avoid being issued with some noise-nuisance court order or something. But the damage was done by then, and sleep seemed something that was not on particularly good terms with me. I had to resort to woefully lazing on my bed for a couple hours.

I wriggle around under my duvet, struggling to find a position in which I can lie for more than five minutes without feeling too warm. It doesn't look like this heat is going to abide any time soon. I roll to the side of my bed closest to the wall, tangling my calves up awkwardly in my sheets, and feel around for what I'm after. I keep my sketchbooks tucked away down the side of my mattress – I guess it's kinda ridiculous how I hide them better than I hide my cigarettes.

I flick through a couple pages of old sketches which I distinctly _dislike_ now, until I come to the first blank page.

Sometimes, I wonder why it never occurred to last-year me to pick up Art as my last elective, rather than fucking Philosophy. I'm actually half-way decent at Art. But I can recall more than one conversation between my parents listing what subjects are "real subjects". Art was never gonna be one of those.

I sigh loudly, air shooting out through my nose as I tap a pencil against my sketch pad, waiting for inspiration to arrive. Mind pretty fucking blank. I could draw Mikasa. But I always draw Mikasa. It'd look pretty damn stalkerish if someone ever looked through my sketch books. I resort to balancing my pencil on my upper lip as I roll onto my back, and stare up at the thrilling spectacle that is my ceiling.

"Jean," comes my mom's sharp trill up the stairs. "Jeaaaaaaaan, I'm going out now! Make sure to pay Marco when he gets here!"

I let my pencil roll down onto my chest as I reach for my phone on my nightstand. 11.58 am. Well, that was a long time spent wallowing.

"Yeah, mom!" I shout back, though my voice is gravelly. I doubt she hears me anyway, as the front door slams shut.

I tuck my still-blank sketch book back into the crevice between my bed and the wall, making sure to adjust the duvet a little to conceal its hiding place, before attempting to roll out of bed. I say roll, but my legs are well and truly twisted in my sheets, so as I try to leave the comfort of my mattress, I fall flat on my face, on the hard, wooden floor.

"Fuck," I groan. This seems to happen more than I'd care to admit.

I lie on the floor for some while, contemplating the general misery of my existence. Also the dull pain in my wrist. Must've fallen on it awkwardly.

* * *

Eventually, I stagger down stairs into the kitchen, dragging my feet morosely across the off-white tiles. There's still half a pot of coffee on the counter-top, so I pour myself a mug. It's luke warm, and makes me grimace. But I drink it anyway. Can't be bothered to make another pot.

As I take up a perch on the same bar stool as yesterday, I can't help but feel today isn't going to be great.

It takes about ten minutes of me staring dismally into the caffeine-abyss of my coffee before I notice the back yard gate open from the corner of my eye, and the tanned, freckled pool boy is dragging a pair of heavy looking buckets and a coil of hose across the lawn.

He stands, for a while, with his hands on his hips, staring down at the pool – really now, it can't be that fucking interesting, can it? I'm pretty sure it's just water. Correct me if I'm wrong there. A breeze ruffles his black undercut and the collar of his ghastly, cornflower blue polo, and then he's striding briskly across to the pool shed. From the way he runs a hand over the back of his neck, I'm pretty sure he's gone and forgotten the combination for the lock.

I roll my tongue inside my cheek, and reach up to knock loudly on the window pane. He jumps a fucking mile in the air, and it makes me snort.

_Five-three-five-one_, I mime with my fingers, to which Marco replies with an animated double thumbs up, and cheesy grin. What a dork.

After some degree of fumbling, he successfully removes the padlock, and turns back to face me, mouthing an over the top "thank you". I roll my eyes, and jump down from the bar stool, my coffee now far too cold to pretend to enjoy. Down the sink it goes.

I grab a tea towel in my hand, and use it to twist the hot faucet, a spluttering gush of water sloshing out into the sink basin. I pinch the mug handle between my thumb and forefinger, and hold it out beneath the stream, keeping my hand as far away from the steaming water as possible. I rinse the mug a couple times, aiding it with a generous squirt of Fairy Liquid, before dropping it onto the draining board with a clang. I wrinkle my nose, turn off the faucet, and wipe down my hands vigorously on my jeans.

Marco's inspecting what looks to be a strip of paper, holding it up in the air and shielding his eyes from the sun. Some sort of chromatography, probably. I did something like that in Chemistry last term.

I watch him run back and forth between the pool shed and the pump at least half a dozen times before I realise I've zoned out. Damn dog. I need more sleep. I pinch the bridge of my nose, and squeeze my eyes shut for a (long) moment.

When I open them again, I'm mildly surprised to find Marco staring at me from the other side of the window, his fist hovering just in front of the glass. His smile is apologetic and probably slightly worried – I try to placate the frown that's almost certainly on my face. Mom says I look perpetually angry. It's not my fault everything annoys me, geez. (Kidding, by the way.)

I raise my eyebrows expectantly, as he drops his arm to his side, before bringing it straight back up to the nape of his neck, which he rubs sheepishly.

"Sorry," comes his voice through the glass. "Do you… happen to have a bucket or something that I can mix some chemicals in? It looks like I didn't bring one with me…" His dark eyes glint in the bright sunlight as he meets my glare, his expression still anxious.

"Uh, yeah," I mumble, before realising he probably can't hear me all too well. Instead, I just point down the counter at the kitchen door, in a bumbling explanation of the fact that, _yes, that is the door I am going to open so that I can reply to your question._

"Sorry," I say, stepping out onto the patio. Instant mistake. The concrete is fucking _hot_. I can practically smell my bare feet burning. "Oh shit! It's fucking boiling!" I hop around, looking like a right fucking idiot, leaping onto the much, _much_ cooler grass.

"A-are you alright?" Marco laughs abashedly, his eyebrows quirked upwards, as I growl a string of curses under my breath.

"Fucking hate this weather," I grumble, inspecting the soles of my feet for damage. They look alright. For now.

"Perfect swimming weather then," he chuckles, as I stalk across the lawn towards the pool shed. I'm pretty sure there're some old buckets in there he can use. All the crap that no-one can be bothered to throw away has a tendency to end up stashed there.

"Something like that," I mutter over my shoulder, worming my hands into my jean pockets. Swimming. Or even better, an extended Titanfall marathon, accompanied by the beautiful thing that is air conditioning. Now _that_ sounds right up my street.

There aren't any buckets in the pool shed, so I'm forced to offer an old, suspiciously full-of-cobwebs watering can to do the job.

"Here," I say gruffly, holding it out at a rigid arm's reach. Apparently it's not just swimming pools or me burning my feet on the concrete that make him smile. I'm pretty sure being so happy over a fucking watering can is pushing the boat out just a little bit. "Sorry, no buckets."

"No, this'll do just fine," Marco says cheerfully, creases appearing at the corners of his eyes as he squints to inspect the can for any obvious holes. "Thanks, Jean."

I shrug in a "no biggie" sort of manner, and slink out of the shed with my shoulders still hunched.

* * *

I find myself mulling around the house as usual, for the next few hours; I play a bit of Titanfall, but the jerks are out in full force, and I have enough of the constant harassment for not being the _best _shot after about half an hour. Fuck those guys. Stupid twelve year olds with no lives.

_You also don't have a life, Jean,_ I mentally add. I can feel the frown heavy on my face.

As I stab the power button on the TV control, I hear the undeniably bad warbling of someone whose ears are definitely _not _connected to their brain. I'm pretty sure the song is _Welcome To The Black Parade_, but I wouldn't put money on that. If you know what I mean.

It's Marco singing, of course. (It would probably be slightly weird if it was just some stranger who has decided my back yard is the best place for a bad rendition of My Chemical Romance.)

They don't give singing lessons in pool-cleaning school, that's for sure.

I move to shut the window, but pause as Marco makes ridiculous use of the pool net as a guitar. Wow. I almost shout out to him – to dutifully inform him that he looks like a complete dork – but quickly clam my mouth shut, deciding that alerting him to the fact I'm spying on his one man show is probably creepy.

He drops the net into the pool during a particularly energetic rift, splattering water up against his khaki shorts. I poorly conceal a choking laugh. This guy is too much.

Kneeling on the pool side, he reaches for the net floating an arms distance away – he stretches his fingers as far as he can reach, and yeah, I almost will him to fall in, just to be the icing on the cake. But he doesn't. He retrieves the net, and hooks his headphones around his neck. I guess too much excitement for one day.

My stomach growls, and I slip away from the window, attempting to slide smoothly into the kitchen (but failing, because my feet stick to the tiles). The fridge boasts absolutely zero sustenance for my approaching starvation; I silently pray for mom to visit the store on the way back from aerobics (I certainly can't be assed to drive over).

Marco's packing up out in the back yard – rinsing out the watering can in the pool, before running it to the shed, and coiling up the long length of white hosepipe he'd brought with him (although pretty unsuccessfully, as I watch it spring away from his grasp multiple times). I check the drawer on the counter island, and sure enough, another white envelope, with mom's crazy-ass scrawl: _Trost Pool Servicing & Repair (Marco)._ At least we're free of the winky faces. Well… so far.

"Hey, I'm just about done here," Marco says, as I emerge from the kitchen (jumping quickly across the patio). The translation is, of course: _hey, can I have my payment now_, but apparently this guy is not only super cheery, but also saintly polite.

"Here," I say simply, holding out the envelope to him. "My mom left this for you. Hope it's all there." He takes the money with a grateful smile.

"Thanks," he grins. He pockets the envelope without even checking its contents, but pats his shorts' pocket twice in affirmation. "I'll be back on Thursday to service again. Your mom – uh, Céline – said that Thursdays are a good day for you guys, right? Thursdays and Saturdays."

I give him a casual shrug for a _yeah, I guess so_. I don't have classes on a Thursday, so I'm usually at home, and most of the time, mom is too. And dad likes to work late.

Marco gathers his equipment in his arms, and heads for the gate. I turn to head back into the house, but hesitate. Looking back over my shoulder, I call: "Hey man…"

Marco turns back to look at me, juggling the hose in his hands as he struggles to draw back the deadbolt. His eyes are wide, as if he's surprised I've chosen to talk to him.

"… Lay off the MCR next time, alright?"

My mouth spreads into what can only be described as a shit-eating grin as his eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and his cheeks turn the colour of a tomato.

"R-right…!"

I return to the house feeling pretty fucking pleased with myself.

* * *

The second coming of Christ occurs when my dad actually arrives home at dinner time. It's Sunday, but he always finds an excuse to work. I can't remember the last time he spent a whole day at home.

He strips his suit jacket the minute he comes through the door, lobbing it onto the end of the stair bannister, his stomach hanging over his pants' waistband – and he tells _me_ that I look like a fucking slob.

My _Ramones_ t-shirt isn't even that fucking tatty. Sure, it's probably seen better days. But it's _the Ramones_, man. I shouldn't have to wear a fucking suit in my own house.

Better than my mom though. She'd probably prefer to see me in sweater vests or something equally stupid looking. I've got enough unworn _Ralph Lauren_ polo shirts in my wardrobe to last me a life time without having to wash anything, so the last thing I need are _Ralph Lauren_ sweater vests.

I throw on a blazer to appease my dad anyway.

It doesn't stop him from completely grilling me over the chicken that night. I'm kinda glad at how long our dining table is, because he's far enough away from me that I don't feel the overwhelming need to sink into my seat. Just the "slightly whelming" need. Ugh.

Of course he wants to know how Philosophy is going. Couldn't care less about the fact that hey, I think I might actually get that A in Chemistry, despite the shitty professor. I outright lie, and tell him that the revision is going great, and I'm really clicking with this Bertrand Russell crap. (I hate Bertrand Russell with the power of one thousand burning suns, let me tell you.)

That changes his tone in an instant. He then goes on to inform me about the copies of _Battlefield 4_ and _Dead Rising 3_ he managed to get from a guy at the office – which is great and all, because I know that he's only giving me these games as an easy apology for coming home gone ten the past few weeks, and I really couldn't care less (because hey, I'd much rather play on the Xbox than have to suffer more thrilling conversations with this man about my school life) – but mom just scowls.

She mutters something about games encouraging violence, anti-social behaviour, and the fact that I may or may not have not left the house in recent memory to do anything other than drive to and from college, but my dad rebuffs her.

"Come on Céline – Jean's a nineteen year old guy. He can play video games if he wants to."

That really tells you all you need to know about my father and his two-facedness. I kinda get the impression his concern about my school work is really only at face value. It doesn't really matter what grades I get. It's all lined up that I go to work for him once I finished university.

Pretty sure that I was never involved in _that_ decision.

* * *

Monday morning is like a power drill in my head. My bed is far too comfy, and I'm even willing to overlook the sweltering heat for just five minutes more. _Please_, God, Jesus, Buddha, anyone.

Sadly, even praying to approximately fifty different dieties will not get you out of 9 am Math.

Math is generally alright. I mean, in the sense that you're either right or wrong – there's no pretentious middle ground there. But it's also one of the classes I share with Connie.

Armin also takes Maths too, but that's not surprising because he's smart. Hella smart. And he's pretty decent as well, because he actually cares to give me the time of day once in a while, despite the fact I once pummelled the living daylights out of his best friend. (As I said before: not my fucking fault. Eren Jaeger got what he deserved.)

In fact, today is a particularly good day in terms of social interaction (for me, at least).

"Do you understand it better now?" Armin says to me, as I finally set my pencil down, having satisfactorily got to grips with this Taylor Series bullshit. "I think it's easier if you do it this way, rather than the way that Professor Pixis does it…"

I nod firmly, retracing each step of my calculations, feeling relatively confident that I might have cracked it this time.

"Yeah, thanks Armin, I think I've got it now. Your method is waaaay better."

"I'm glad," he replies with a small, content-looking smile. "You seem to look like you want to pull your hair out most of the time these days, Jean. I'm glad I could help a bit."

"Tch'yeah," I scoff, running a hand through my hair. "Revision is driving me up the wall right now." That's a white lie. I spend most of the time staring at my ever growing pile of revision, moping over the fact I have zero motivation to actually get it done. Not that Armin needs to know – he's probably never found school work a chore a single day in his life.

"Not that you even need to pass these exams," Connie smirks, having turned around in his seat to join in our conversation. I'm not sure how much my surprise registers in my face, but Connie doesn't seem to notice it. "You're so lucky with your folks, man. You've got a job lined up after all this. I envy the hell outta you!"

Pixis yells at us then, telling us that we either talk math, or get the hell out of his class room. So we shut up.

But I'm not gonna lie, I'm pretty fucking stunned. I can't even remember the last time Connie spoke to me. I bite back a sly little grin.

* * *

That evening, as I crawl onto the roof with a self-pitying cigarette clamped firmly between my teeth, I replay Connie's words over and over to myself in my head. I try to remember how his voice sounded, but the more and more I repeat his words, the more and more distant he seems to sound.

Embarrassingly (even though I'm completely and utterly alone), I find myself coughing on the smoke that coats my throat. I splutter, and have to slam my fist into my chest a few times to save myself from hacking up my lungs.

It comes in waves – how much this stuff bothers me. Usually if I drown myself in enough new Xbox games, I don't have to think about Connie, about Sasha, about Eren Jaeger.

The last time I felt this shitty was the morning after the last Titans' game – Connie's always supported the Trost Titans since before I can remember, and when his folks forked out for a season pass for him at the beginning of tenth grade, it became our thing. We never missed a game (not that football is really up my street, but I grew to sorta like it, you could say). Well, after the whole Eren Jaeger fiasco, I gathered that our thing was no longer _our thing_. Last week's Titans game drove that stake in real deep; Connie had gone with Mikasa and Eren (and Sasha, of course) to the game, and they could _just not shut up about it_.

I take a cautious drag on my cigarette, once the general choking has subsided. The smoke is rough at the back of my mouth.

I'm not sure why it had bothered me as much as it did – I've been used to their lack of presence in my life for a year give or take, but this really stuck. I remember leaving my lunch half way through that day, because my appetite has suddenly done a Houdini on me when Eren started enthusiastically bragging to some of the others about the great seats they had gotten.

I wonder if Connie had noticed my uncomfortable, slinking-out-of the cafeteria, and put two and two together. And then decided to talk to me today to make sure I didn't feel like complete and utter shite. Yeah, that's probably it. God forbid they've actually gotten over what happened with Eren.

I laugh then – the noise sounds hollow. Who am I kidding? I haven't even gotten over what happened with Eren. But apparently listening to my point of view is out of the question.

_Jean_, I mentally add. _Your point of view never stretched beyond: you're a fucking dick, Jaeger!_

* * *

I hope that the Connie thing is not a one-off, but Tuesday and Wednesday pass without it happening again. I'm pretty sure I could've bored holes in the back of his head with my glares, but of course he doesn't notice. Oh well. I extinguish the idiotic bit of hope that was clinging to the idea that things could possibly go back to the way they were. Man.

On Thursday, I wake up with memories of Sasha, Connie and mine's road trip from two summers ago. I'm definitely glad I don't have classes today. I sit with my head in my hands, listening to the _tic-tic-tic_ of my clock on my high stand – until it begins to irritant the fuck out of me, and I send the thing flying with a swipe of my hand. It lands face down on the floor. I really hope I haven't broken it.

I pull on a pair of jean strewn across my floor – and even I can admit my _Ramones_ shirt smells a bit funky, so I blindly pull out another white t-shirt from my wardrobe. I don't notice until it's splayed across my chest that it's one of my seen-better-days, Trost U shirts. Mom will just have to deal.

I rub my eyes – tiredly, and because I just want to clear the images from my head. And 'cause it fells fucking good. You know that feeling when you just can't stop rubbing your eye? Fucking eye masturbation, man. Wait, that's probably a weird thing to say.

I stagger downstairs, and robotically make myself a pot of _strong_, black coffee; it takes some dazed minutes to realise I can definitely hear mom's voice, but I can't actually see her. Oh god, she's doing _the laugh_.

I skulk through the back door, gripping onto the handle of my mug for the sake of my own sanity. My mom briefly throws me a glance, eyeing my bedraggled appearance sceptically, as I slip into the narrow shadows cast by the house alongside the kitchen windows, avoiding the sun-lit patio like the plague. She lounges in the recliner in true cougar fashion; her jeans practically look like they've been painted on, whilst her shirt is far too low cut for me to ever go without washing my eyes out with bleach for the rest of my life. She clutches a tumbler of lemonade on her now-silver manicure, gently stirring the ice cubes with a little, pink, cocktail umbrella. Her eyes are trained on Marco, knee deep in the shallow end, sweeping the pool floor with his net.

Poor, poor Marco.

"_Mom_," I dead-pan. "What. Are. You. Doing."

Stupid question really. I can see exactly what she's doing. She's preying on the pool boy.

She whips her gaze away from Marco to stare discerningly at me, her fingers pausing in the swirling of her lemonade.

"Marco was just telling me all about his others clients," she says, slightly louder than I anticipate, causing me to grimace, the hairs on the back of my neck bristling. "He says we have the _nicest_ pool that he cleans. And the nicest house."

And then, below her breath, she adds an aside: "And doesn't he have the _nicest arms_?"

Oh boy. I take a long, deep swig of my coffee; it fucking scorches my throat, but I force it down. I need it.

My mom suddenly sits up straighter on the lounger, propping her glass down on the accompanying table, alongside another, fuller lemonade.

"Marcoooo," she croons (and I cringe), causing the pool boy to look up, his eyebrows high on his forehead in surprise. "You look like you're baking out there! Come and have a drink!"

Marco is – as I noticed the other day – super polite. He comes jogging over without a second's thought, a big, cheesy grin plastered across his freckled face. As he gets closer, I notice how the freckles closest to his eyes seem to disappear into laughter lines there. I wonder: is he just exceptionally naïve, or is he actually cool with being hit on by my desperate, forty-something year old mom? (I feel like shuddering at the thought.)

His eyes flit to mine as he approaches, but dart away just as quickly. I hide a snigger in another gulp of coffee. I'd put money on what he's remembering.

"Here you go, dear," my mom trills, carefully handing him the fuller tumbler, which he accepts gratefully in both sun-tanned hands. "Drink up! It looks like _hot_ work out there."

He takes a quick sip, before placing the lemonade back on the table.

"It's nothing I'm not used to, Mrs Kirschtein," he chirps – _he fucking chirps_. "I was born in Jinae, and the summers are much hotter down there."

"Oh, how lovely," she purrs, resting her chin coyly in her palm. "Such a beautiful city, isn't it? We've been there a few times on vacation, haven't we Jean? Oh, but you hated it! Couldn't stop complaining about the heat, could you!" She laughs floozily; Marco joins in, but his awkwardness radiates through.

"Not a fan of the hot weather, are you, Jean?" Marco adds, turning towards me, one hand resting on his hip. I roll my eyes and mutter: "yeah, I think we established that _last_ time." I'm not sure if he hears or not, because the phone starts to ring from inside the kitchen.

"Excuse me for a moment, Marco," my mom chimes, shimmying to her feet. I grit my teeth, far beyond the point of simple exasperation. I feel like it'd be pretty great to just be eaten up by the ground right about now.

She totters into the kitchen, and shortly I hear the sound of her crooning into the phone. Marco scratches the back of his head sheepishly, as I continue to glare at the point in the concrete where I want really badly for it to open up.

"Your mom is… really something," he offers, somewhat hesitantly. I snort loudly, and then drain the remainder of my coffee. "Is she always so… nice?"

Oh my god, he's an _idiot_.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, and can't stop myself from laughing lightly to myself. This has got to be beyond "exceptionally naïve" by a fucking mile.

"Dude, she's trying to _hit on you_."

He's stares dumfounded at me for some time, his mouth completely a gape.

"O-oh. Oh. _Oh god_."

His transition from completely not-getting-it, to horrific realisation is a fucking picture. He runs his hand again and again through his undercut, before glancing at me in a serious state of concern.

"A-are you sure? I thought she just-" he stops himself, taking my expression surely as an answer to his amusing panic. "Oh, how I could I not pick up on that…"

I shrug, but can't wipe the grin off my face. This guy. _This guy._ His state of panic is really something that needs seeing to believe. Wow.

"She didn't get to shag the last pool boy before my dad threatened to cut his balls off," I snigger, at which Marco looks horrified. "You should probably think about… not encouraging her, man. Like…"

I pause, watching Marco's face, as he seems to hang on my every word, hoping that I might be kind enough to offer him some pearls of wisdom for rebuking my mom's sexual harassment.

"Like… the smiling thing. Maybe cut back a bit on the cheer." I don't why I choose that of all things to say, but it comes out none the less. Marco appears to flush, his freckles disappearing into his cheeks. "…And don't accept the lemonade in the future, alright?"

He nods earnestly, rubbing one arm bashfully. I open my mouth to say something more, but am interrupted by my mom's loud warble of: "Jeeeeean, it's your grandma on the phone! Come and talk to her!"

I roll my eyes extra dramatically, and Marco flashes me a smile both sympathetic and grateful. I turn towards the kitchen door, but looking back over my shoulder, I smirk: "Good luck, man. You're gonna need it."

* * *

I talk on the phone with my grandma for almost a full hour. Well, I say that, but what I really mean is: my grandma talks _at_ me for an hour, and I offer vague affirmations of "yes" and "no" every so often.

It's all the usual grandma-y stuff: is school going okay? Are you studying hard? How are you friends getting on? Have you got a girlfriend yet?

"_No_, grandma," I sigh, drumming my fingers on the kitchen counter which I lean on, as I watch Marco's increasingly awkward body language as my mom continues to flirt with him, out on the patio. It almost looks like he's sunburnt, he's that worked up. He's putting his all into making sure he's got _every spec of dirt_ out of that pool.

He finishes up at just about the same time that grandma relinquishes her verbal hold on me, and I am able to hang up the phone. My mom seems to pounce on him the minute he puts down his pool net, waving around the thin, white envelope as she talks animatedly at him. I watch the fiasco from the safety of the other side of the kitchen windows, chuckling to myself evilly.

Somehow, by the grace of some sympathetic God, Marco manages to edge himself towards the back gate, clutching his equipment to his chest as a protective barrier. I decide to be a nice guy, and save him the continuing horror.

"Hey, mooooom," I shout, causing her to turn, "Can you help me with something a sec?"

I watch as mom bids farewell to Marco, and begins to totter back across the lawn towards me. Marco's red face quickly slips into an appreciative grin, and he extends his hand in a brief wave in my direction. I smirk. Idiot.

* * *

I take a cigarette up onto the roof as per, just as the sky is beginning to get really dark. It's not as painful as it was the last time, and I enjoy the taste of the nicotine and the smoke, attempting – and thoroughly failing – to blow smoke rings. Gandalf makes it look so easy.

My mind reels back to Monday as I soak up the cooler air. I think of Connie, and the others. The possibly only "friendly for friendly's sake" conversation in maths.

And then, for some reason, that reminds me of Marco.

I take a deep, drawn-out draught on my cigarette. Friendly just for friendly's sake. I really hope that's not the case. He seems like a pretty funny sort of guy.

I find that I have a slither of anticipation for Marco's next visit resting in the bottom of my gut.

* * *

**Please read and review! All feedback is appreciated!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** So this should also be known as the chapter in which I no zero about anything American. You guys' university system really confused the frick out of me, not gonna lie. I hope my Britishism isn't glaringly obvious. Other than that, I hope ya'll enjoy the chapter. Some more Marco, shirtless as promised. More to come.  
Jean and Marco's friendship will continue to grow in the next few chapters, and they'll get to know each other some more. It's gonna be fun.  
The chapter title is the name of a Dead Kennedys album, simply for the fact that that's what Jean is listening to in this chapter. I'm sorry (not sorry) for giving him basically my music taste hahahaha

I'd like to point out some delicious art drawn by Sizzlesart on tumblr for this fic (check out her page!)  
And also the fact that I also have a tumblr: theprophetlemonade

**Chapter Three:** Give Me Convenience or Give Me Death

* * *

When I was in middle school, most of my friends envied my house. I remember Connie used to come over most days after school simply to sit on our couch (which he proclaimed was practically as big as his own living room), rather than actually enjoy my company. When Sasha would join us, it was always hard to drag her away from the fridge freezer (Connie often joked that we should just shut her in it, because hey, it was big enough for her to probably live a pretty comfortable existence in there) – and then, Sasha would resort to smacking Connie 'round the head with whatever was nearest: usually a cushion, or her sweater, but the time it was the Xbox remote will _always_ be memorable.

I can't remember the last time I had friends over at the house – sometimes, I ask myself why I didn't make the most of remembering what occasion it was, and penning it to memory. But then again, it probably would've been something trivial – maybe Connie had left his phone between the couch cushions _again_, or perhaps Sasha had wanted to borrow some textbooks, because her dog had decided that its _Iams_ just wasn't sustenance enough. And trivial hurts the most.

There's no way I could ever be envious of this house. The older I get, the bigger it seems to feel. Or maybe I'm just annoyed that I will have to get off the sofa in order to reach the fucking remote on top of the TV. Yeah. That's ten steps too many.

I almost regret the fact that I didn't go for dorms when I started at college last year – I say almost, because however lazy I am, and however reluctant I am to move my ass to get something on the other side of a room, I'd probably be even less willing to be forced to share a room with someone else.

Plus, there's not like there was ever much point for me to move away for college – the drive to campus is only fifteen minutes, maybe twenty on a bad day. And if I moved away, who'd be at home to intercept all of dad's secretary's calls to the house phone? No-one, that's right.

I laze on the sofa, one arm behind my head as I stare at the TV. The theme for _Spongebob_ _fucking_ _Squarepants_ begins. Now there are some things I am _definitely_ willing to cross the room for. Saturday day time television really scrapes the barrel.

_Good bye and good riddance_, I mentally growl, stabbing my finger into the power button of the remote. The TV blips to black.

With the chorus of "aye aye, captain" no longer destroying my ear drums, I become aware that my mom's got company in the kitchen. I wrestle my phone out of the pocket of my jeans, and check the time: it's 2.30 pm. I purse my lips. Marco's probably here by now. I hope, for his sake, that whatever my mom is subjecting him to is not going to traumatise the freckled pool boy for life.

To my surprise (and slight relief), it's not actually Marco who my mom's managed to drag into the kitchen – it's another woman, probably one of her friends from aerobics, or from the hairdressers, or from the _whatever the hell my mom actually does with her time_. They're both perched on the pair of barstools that overlook the kitchen window, both cradling cocktail glasses in their painted nails, and both crooning to one another.

Three guesses about what.

"Mom," I say, alerting her to my presence at the kitchen door, causing them both to start. "This is bordering on sexual harassment, I'm not gonna lie."

"Jean," she moans, tilting her glass towards me in her hand, "We're just _admiring_." Her friend giggles insipidly, and she joins in; I groan.

As I cross the kitchen to inspect the fridge, I glance out of the window, and halt in my tracks, my jaw dropping. Marco really doesn't make things better for himself.

"Please tell me you didn't have anything to do with _that_," I say, gesturing wildly to the fact that the tanned, freckled, and very, very, uh… _toned_ pool boy is currently without his shirt.

"No," my mom whines – although I seriously doubt that she would have objected to the possibility of being the cause of his semi-nakedness, had it arisen. "He did it himself. Is that really what you think of me, Jean? Gosh."

_I think you're pretty fucking desperate_, I muse – and I'm pretty sure she's humouring me anyway. I continue on a beeline for the fridge, glare trained on the floor.

The fridge light is a beacon of normalcy in this fucking crazy household, and I reach for a can of Coke, my hand grazing over the jug of lemonade in the door. Just as my fingers curl around the cool red aluminium of the can, my mom calls over my shoulder:

"Oh, go and offer Marco something to drink, okay?"

Really now. What did I ever do to deserve this.

I grumble a string of fucks under my breath, and grab a can of the Dr. Pepper that always seems to appear in the fridge, despite the fact I'm sure no-one in this family actually drinks it.

I trudge out into the garden, deliberately dragging my feet with every step, just to prove to my mom how much I'm not cool with… whatever this even is. Marco looks up from where he's sifting the net through the shallows, and a grin lights up his face.

"Hey," he chimes, tossing the net onto the pool side, hooking his headphones around his neck, and striding over to greet me. I take back any and all statements about how toned he is. He's not just toned. You could practically grate cheese or something on his abs.

I feel my shadow shrinking as I start to think about my own pasty, scrawny torso. This is not fucking fair, Jesus.

"Brought you a drink," I mutter, holding out the Dr. Pepper with a rigid arm. I try to claw back what slither of general decency I still have. "… or you can have my Coke if you want."

His freckles seem to disappear into his red cheeks. I briefly wonder if he bothers with sun block or not. He holds up his hands in front of himself in a flustered gesture.

"N-no! Dr. Pepper is good for me! Thanks!"

He takes the can from my hand quickly, and pops the tab. I shrug, and follow suit, gulping back almost half of my Coke in one breath.

"…You know you're not helping the situation here, right," I add hesitantly, lowering the can from my lips. I tilt my head back towards the kitchen, and Marco's dark eyes follow my movement. I'm pretty sure he recoils slightly. "What's with… _this_?" I gesture with my free hand at his bare chest, as the redness rises in his face, and he awkwardly rubs the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry," he says, ducking his head. I'm not entirely sure why he's apologising to me, when I'm pretty fucking used to this nonsense from my mom. "I kind of spilt the chlorine solution on my shirt earlier. It bleached a giant stain down the front of it, and it really _smelled_-"

I snort loudly, hiding my smirk behind my hand. Marco opens his mouth to say something more, but stops, biting his lip.

"That's some… bad luck, man," I remark, rocking back on my heels. I briefly glance back over my shoulder at the kitchen window – sure enough, they're both still there, eyes fixed on my conversation with their prey – I mean their… nope, prey is probably about right. My mom raises a hand to coyly wave in our direction. Marco reluctantly offers a polite smile in return.

"Do I even want to know what they're saying in there?" he asks, folding his arms protectively across his chest.

I shake my head, unable to stop the smirk that spreads into a sly grin.

"Nope," I snigger, chuckling as his shoulders drop. "Wanna borrow a shirt? You know, to save your decency and all."

He nods, and I chug back the last of my Coke. The bubbles of carbon dioxide fizz in my nose painfully, so I exhale sharply, which must sound something like a scoff. I crunch the can in my hand.

"Not that I can guarantee I'll have anything to fit you," I add sarcastically. "Pretty sure what you've got going on is not really humanly possible, Marco." I roll my tongue in my cheek in satisfaction at the flustered reaction that passes across his face. I snicker to myself as I turn back towards the house, calling over my shoulder: "I'll see what I can find."

* * *

"I'm getting Marco a shirt," I state as I breeze through the kitchen. Despite mom's noises of protest, I continue: "_Someone_ has to save him from your lechery, okay."

I take the stairs two at a time, arriving at my bedroom door mildly more out of breath than I'd actually care to admit.

_Look at you actually being friendly_, my mind snarks. _You should take a picture to treasure this moment, Jean._

I'm sure one of the _Ralph Lauren_ polo shirts (which my mom regularly fills my closet excessively with) would be my best bet for a fit for Marco – mom's only recently started getting my size right (despite having lived with me for _nineteen_ years, I might add), and she used to always buy on the bigger side of things. I check the labels of a few of them, until I find what I'm looking for in the collar of a pretty basic, white one: medium. I tug it off the hanger, which clatters to the floor. I'll pick it up later.

I almost trip over my own feet as I gallop back downstairs, skidding into the kitchen on my socks, very nearly risking winding myself on a counter which I barely miss. Mom and her friend have not moved, but they're enamoured in a pretty serious conversation about some mutual friend's affair with her boss.

Marco's got his back to me when I emerge back out into the yard, crouched over his skimmer, fiddling with the power pack. A line of freckles follows the curve of his spine, pooling in the small of his back – I mentally slap myself for staring. What _are_ you doing, Jean.

"H-hey," I say, finding my voice strained a little. I cough to clear my throat. "_Ralph Lauren_ alright? 'S all I got."

"O-oh, are you sure?" he says, hauling himself to his feet with a heavy breath. His face is kinda red again. Sun burnt? "Isn't that quite… expensive?"

"No biggie," I shrug pretty nonchalantly, tossing him the white shirt, which he catches blunderingly in both hands. "I've got a ton. And I don't wear them much. It's a mom thing."

Marco still seems to hesitate, holding the shirt tight in his hands. I raise my eyebrows expectantly. He admits defeat, and tugs the shirt on over his head.

He's a couple inches taller than me, and his shoulders and back definitely a lot broader than mine (how, I wonder, because what exercise do pool boys actually do? But then again, I'm the one who lazes around on the sofa all day doing fuck all…), so even the medium is a little tight across his chest, and the hem a little short, a slither of his belly visible between it and the band of his khaki shorts. He brushes his palms quickly over his stomach a couple times to smooth down the fabric, seemingly pleased with himself.

"You make that shirt look so much better than I do, and it doesn't even fit you," I mutter off-handedly, but he hears, and an unusual smile pops up on his dark features. Not going to lie, I'm mildly jealous here. I fold my arms across my pretty-fucking-scrawny-in-comparison chest, defensively. "But you know, I'm saving you from potentially being exploited by my mom, so I can forgive you."

Marco laughs – it's a musical, pleasant sort of laugh, and I can't help the way it dugs a more genuine smile out of my sarcastic smirk. His face seems to open up as I do.

"I guess I owe you one, Jean."

* * *

For once in my life, I don't have the over whelming urge to smoke that night. Instead, the inspiration to draw _finally_ arrives after a rather extended vacation.

My pencil moves across the paper in halting, unfamiliar lines – I can't quite get the details right from memory. It's not like Mikasa – I've drawn her so often that I could probably do sketch her with my eyes closed (not that she'd probably be particularly pleased if she ever found out… she'd probably sock me one. And then Eren would probably sock me one as well…). The anatomy looks a bit dodgy, and the muscles are most likely not in the right place, and there's almost certainly not enough freckles – but somehow, it comes out kinda looking like him. Kinda.

I wipe my hand across the paper to clear away the rubber filings, but smudge some of the pencil lines beneath my carpal ligament. I grunt in annoyance. But it's only a simple sketch. I flip the page over, and keep drawing.

I don't really come up with anything concrete, but it's good to get some pencil lines out of my system once in a while. I draw Marco a few more times; I draw my mom and her friend, hunched over the counter crowing over their cocktails; I draw my dad, and the way he slumped in his chair like a pig at dinner time. I end up scribbling out my entire day in a bunch of messy pencil lines and hatches.

By the time midnight rolls by, I've filled up half a dozen pages of scribbles. I probably won't like any of them in the morning. But it was probably worth the therapeutic value… I go to bed feeling mildly less angry at the world than usual.

* * *

Sunday isn't without incident, however.

I roll out of bed cursing the fact it's still too hot to rock the duvet-burrito look around the house for the whole day. I opt for matching Trost U sweatpants and t shirt, deciding: yep, I feel like a hobo today.

My mom's face when I appear at the bottom of the stairs gone lunch time is a picture; she scowls and turns her nose up, complaining loudly about what the neighbours would think if they saw me dressed like this.

I crassly remind her that the neighbours probably wouldn't give a shit.

She joins me in the kitchen as I brew the necessary pot of coffee to fuel my body through today, leaning over the island counter as I sleepily stab the buttons on the coffee machine.

"So I ran into Mrs. Braus at the hairdressers this morning."

It comes very much out of the blue, and there's an edge to her voice that suggests her statement is not just casual conversation.

I turn to face her, moving to put my hands in my pockets – but forgetting that these sweatpants do not in fact have pockets, and so looking like an idiot as my hands fall limply to my sides.

"Oh yeah," I try, casually, "She alright?"

"Mhm, yes, she's fine," my mom replies, with an honest nod. "She asked after you, you know."

"Oh yeah?" I'm not particularly fond of the direction this conversation is looking to be taking. I use all my mental strength to will my coffee to be done already.

"Yeah. She says that Sasha doesn't talk about you much anymore."

Well, no surprises there, mom. It's not a great shock.

"… Are you still not talking to them, Jean?"

The coffee machine beeps loudly, and I spin around to retrieve the pot of black, caffeinated sustenance. I quickly decant it into a mug, and take a sip; it practically tastes of petrol, it's so grim. I swallow my mouthful with a loud gulp.

"No," I say, my voice a little softer than intended. I then add: "But they're also not talking to _me_."

My mom seems to study me for some time, so I just stare back at her, clutching the mug of putrid coffee in my hand. I don't think she gets anything out of me, however. When she speaks again, it's the mom I'm more used to.

"Shame, that. I did like Sasha. She's a pretty girl. Good family too. She's the sort of girl I'd like to see you come home with one day, you know."

I roll my eyes, and blow the cloud of steam away across the top of the mug. _Well done, Jean. When they don't care, you hate it. When they do care, you hate it. Congratulations on being so spectacularly difficult._

"Sorry to disappoint you, mom. 'S not gonna happen."

* * *

The second, mainly shitty thing that makes Sunday generally suck balls, is the fact that I intercept a phone call from the blonde ditz.

The phone rings during the middle of a particularly tense shoot out on NCIS, and I answer with a particularly grouchy: "yeah? Who is it?"

I feel my eyes roll back as far as physically possible in my head as he horrific shrillness echoes across the line.

"Hiii, can I talk to Mr. Kirschtein, please?"

I don't even grace her with a response, marching straight upstairs and into dad's study, without a knock.

"Whatever happened to knocking, Jean-" he starts, minimising the document on his desktop, and turning in his chair to look at me sternly. I hold the phone handset out towards him with a glare that I hope is even half as pissed off as I feel.

"Make her stop ringing the house phone," I state.

"She's my secretary, Jean. How many times? It's work."

He tries to pull the wool over my eyes every single time. And every single time, I want to punch him in the face. Ideally with the phone still in my hand.

He takes the handset from me, and covers the receiver with his palm. He obviously realises I'm not buying his bullshit.

"We should talk," he says.

_About what_, I think. _Because all I want to ask you is why I'm still covering for you on this._

"No, we shouldn't," I reply. I turn on my heel, and leave, making sure to slam the door on my way out. I stop at the top of the stairs, and listen. There's silence for a little while, but then comes the low voice of my dad into the phone.

"Charlotte, what did I tell you about calling the house phone? I don't want my wife to pick up."

I don't think I want to hear the rest of this conversation.

* * *

I try to focus on my revision for finals for the rest of the week – mainly because the fact that most of my text books are laying on my desk unopened despite the fact exams are only a month away is fucking terrifying me – but also to try to get my mind as far away from everything else as possible. I even begin to find a silver lining to Bertrand Russell. I must be losing it.

Even on Wednesday, I heroically sacrifice my lie in to start on some Chemistry problems early. I sweep my open sketch book to the side of my desk, and open up my notes to epoxide mechanisms. Organic chemistry, I will crack you.

A lot of swearing, screwing up a dozen failed mechanisms, resorting to blasting some _Dead Kennedys_ very loudly, and half an attempted past paper later, the sun is blaring through my open window, scorching my back. It must be around midday.

As _California Über Alles_ comes to a close, I hear the sound of my mom talking loudly out in back yard. I turn down the volume on my laptop to try to make out what she's saying.

"-listens to that god awful racket far too loudly and… oh, has he turned it down?"

I wheel myself to the window on my desk chair, pulling myself across the floorboards with my feet. Poking my head out beneath the upper sash, I notice that it's Marco to whom she's nattering. Of course – Wednesday and all.

"You know, it's not nice to talk about people behind their backs!" I shout, startling my mom, who raises a hand to her chest in fright. Watching her flap around, trying to compose herself, brings a wolfish grin to my lips.

"Jean!" she squawks, gesturing wildly up at my second floor window. "Don't shout like that! You could've given me a heart attack!" Marco folds his arms, and chuckles behind his fingers. "Look, can you come down here a sec?"

"I'm studying, mom!" I retort, "Just yell loudly and I'll hear you!"

My mom opens her mouth to reply, but Marco dutifully interrupts her.

"I just wanted to give you your shirt back, Jean," he smiles, as my mom pouts her puffy lips exasperatedly. "I can give it back later, when you're done studying, if that's better?"

"Oh right!" I exclaim, "No man, that's cool! Do you mind throwing it up or something? I'm kinda in the middle of doing a paper."

Marco looks like he's trying to gauge the distance between the ground and my window, debating the probability of the shirt getting stuck on the gutter on the way up.

"I-I'll just bring it up, if that's alright? I don't trust my throwing arm!"

I shrug, and wheel away from the window, spinning around a bit too vigorously – I clutch the edge of my desk with both hands to stop myself from toppling straight over.

I stare down at some question about hydrolases, but the words don't really register anywhere within my brain. I try the next question, as I hear tentative footsteps on the landing.

"It's this one!" I call, without looking away from my question sheet, as the door creaks open.

"H-hey," Marco says, sliding his way past the door. In his hands, he holds the polo shirt, meticulously folded, as I'd expect from what I know of him. He doesn't move from the doorway, so I twist around to face him, holding up my hand to receive the shirt.

"Pass it here then," I grin; Marco looks between the nicely folded shirt and my hand, and hesitates before he throws it to me. Luckily, for my dignity, I don't drop it.

I roll myself and my chair across to my closet, where I search for an unoccupied hanger (which is a harder feat than expected, because I really do have too many fucking clothes that I don't ever wear…).

Marco shuffles forward a few more steps, and from the corner of my eye, I see something grab his interest.

"… Do you draw?"

I freeze, shirt half on hanger. Shit. I left my sketch book on my desk.

"Uh… not really," I say sheepishly. "I… uh… just doodle when I'm bored, you know? I'm not very good…"

"Can I… have a look?" I desperately want to ask him: why, exactly, our pool boy is in my room, wanting to nosy through my private things. Well, I tell myself that. But the way he points curiously at my sketch book, a massive, dorky grin hiding freckles in his dimples, sends my mind reeling.

"Uh… if you like?"

He ducks his head meekly, and reaches to flip the page of my sketch book over, his fingers barely touching the white sheet as he does.

I replace the hanger – plus shirt – in the closet, and retrain my eyes on him, watching from a distance. His smile has been replaced by a look of deep concentration, the skin between his dark eyebrows creased. He passes through the pages of Mikasa, the lose scribbles of my parents, and then falters when he comes across what is unmistakably him (however much I've decided that the anatomy is pretty fucking rubbish). He holds the next page suspended, between his thumb and forefinger, and stares down at the messy lines for a long while. I can practically feel myself sweating, the silence is so awkward.

"These are… really good, Jean," he finally says, his eyes flicking up to meet mine. That's it. He doesn't remark on the more-than-slightly-creepy elephant in the room. I run a hand through my hair, turning it up on end, feeling heat rise on the back of my neck.

"…Thanks, man."

"Do you study it? Art, that is?"

"Oh… uh, no," I reply, quickly – maybe a little too quickly, because Marco's eyebrows rise quizzically. I point at the pile of Chemistry textbooks at the other end of my desk. "I didn't fancy it."

"Huh. That's amazing." I get the impression that he's not exactly talking to me when he says that. He turns the page in his fingers, finding he's reached the end of my drawings. He straightens up, and looks unsure at what to do with himself.

I roll my tongue in my cheek, drumming my fingers against the underside of my desk chair. More out of a need to do something before I go insane with this silence, rather than any sort of impatience. Marco opens his mouth to say something, but clamps it shut again immediately; I've noticed his embarrassed quirk tends to be to chew on his bottom lip. He tries again to say what's on his mind.

"Do you think… uh, how should I say this…" His hand reaches up, as per, to scratch the back of his shallow undercut. "These are really cool, Jean. Do you think I could – you know – have that one of… me."

Oh. Oh, okay. Was not expecting that. This obviously plasters itself across my face.

"Oh! Unless that's not cool!" Marco quickly back-tracks, taking a step away from my desk, his palms held up defensively in my direction.

I don't even notice that I've leapt out of my chair, until I'm at my desk, slamming my sketch book shut with a wind of force. Marco appears to be pretty much scared shitless.

"'S not like that one's any good," I mutter, below my breath. I'm flustered. Very, _very_, fucking flustered. "I can probably – you know – do a better one. If you want."

I watch the change in his expression from the corner of my eye: from fear, to surprise, to the biggest, most fucking ridiculous grin I've ever seen on his face. _My_ face feels excessively warm.

"… Don't you have a pool to clean or something now?" I try to keep my face as serious as possible, but I just can't prevent a reluctant smile.

* * *

I just can't get back into the Chemistry after that, try as hard as I might (which isn't really all that hard, I should add). I try some Philosophy, but that hits a mental road block. Same with the Math, same with the European History. I resort to opening up my French textbook, for the simple illusion of productivity. I can do French.

My eyes are skimming through some chapter about the changes in 21st century French literature from the point of view of some irrelevant and extremely boring critic, and I find myself grinning. Like a fucking idiot. Like Marco. I cover my eyes with my palm, and squeeze my temples, but the grinning doesn't subside. I'm glad I'm alone right now.

_You know what, Jean Kirschtein? I think you may have just achieved the impossible. You may have just gone and made a friend._

* * *

Maybe someone's looking down on me from somewhere, because something beyond miraculous happens after my Philosophy seminar that Friday.

I literally stagger out of class, very-fucking-eager to get away from Professor Dok's excessive rationalisation of some brain-destroying theory of knowledge text that I almost certainly should have already read by this point in the term.

I haul my bag up onto my usual cafeteria table, my text books sounding like a ton of bricks on the linoleum surface. I'd over slept that morning, so all I have in my bag is a rather sorrowful looking bag of chips, and a squished Mars bar. As I pop the packet of chips between my palms, I notice Connie and Sasha walk in, trailing the larger group of Eren, Mikasa, Armin, Historia, and her actually-kinda-scary sophomore girlfriend, Ymir. They're talking with their heads close together, Connie gesturing wildly, and Sasha pursing his lips in frustration. The general ruckus of the cafeteria prevents me from hearing a word, so I instead busy myself with licking the chip dust from my fingers.

I look up when a short, bald shadow is cast across my table, and a battered looking rucksack is thrown down next to mine.

It's Connie. And it's not _yes-I'm-awkwardly-avoiding-you_ Connie. I frown. He sits down opposite me.

"You alright?" he says, and I just about detect a hint of hesitation there. But he's trying damn hard to suppress it. "'S been a while."

"…Yeah," I say suspiciously, hand half submerged in my chips again. I have no clue what he's wanting me to say in response to the fact he's just sat down in front of me, after twelve months of being blatantly ignored. He obviously senses this awkwardness – he can't exactly _not_, even if this is Connie we're talking about.

"You been playing _Titanfall_ lately?" He's always been a bit out-there, but this is weird.

I eat a chip, whilst continuing to frown. Maybe if I frown hard enough, I'll be able to figure out what he actually wants. Or he'll at least leave me the hell alone.

"What's this about, Connie?"

He looks mildly taken aback, gold-brown eyes wide. He folds his arms on the table top, and leans forward slightly.

"What? I just wanted to know if you've got it. I figured you did."

He's not wrong there. But it doesn't take an intuitive genius to figure that out (which he definitely isn't, by the way). I was after that game since way before the Eren incident.

"I think Sasha's pretty fed up with me talking about it all the time," he continues, barely pausing for breath. "I'm level forty-nine, you know? One to go, then I can do that regen thing. Oh, and I unlocked the Ogre and Stryder classes the other day as well. 'S well cool."

"I'm not surprised she is," I murmur. "Did you really come here to talk _Titanfall_ with me, Connie, or do you just want my Philosophy notes?"

Connie sighs, and scratches the top of his head as he debates what to say. For once in his life, he's being strangely closed-off.

"I don't want your Philosophy notes," he exhales. "I want to talk about _video games_. Like we used to."

"You know it's not like that anymore."

"… Says who?"

I find enough determination to finally look him in the eye. He seems frustrated, fiddling with the tattered cuffs of his jacket. I move my gaze over his shoulder, to the table where the others are sitting: Eren and Ymir are arguing pretty vigorously, his arms flailing, and her face a sneer, whilst Historia clings to her girlfriend's arm in an attempt to pull her back into her seat. I can't see Mikasa's face, but I'm sure it's one that's glaring daggers. Sasha sits on Mikasa's other side, and I watch as her line of sight flits back down into her lap when she sees I'm looking.

"Sasha's creeping on us," I remark, giving a nod in her direction.

"I know," Connie replies, glancing over his shoulder briefly. As he does, his phone vibrates with an irritating jingle. "She misses you, bud. We both do."

This surprises me beyond measure. I rack my brain for what on earth could be the cause of this sudden declaration, but I come up with nothing. Zilch. I'm left staring blankly at my once-upon-a-time best friend, as he quietly checks his text messages beneath the table. He laughs a breathy laugh.

"She just asked me what we're talking about," he grins, showing me the screen of his brick-of-a-Nokia. Sure enough, that's what it says. Just minus some general literacy, and with a few dozen extra question marks. Very Sasha. "What should I tell her?"

In my mind, this could go one of two ways. The first way: I could tell him to stop wasting his time. Ask him if he's really forgiven me for breaking Eren's nose, collarbone, and two of his ribs. Tell him that Eren sure won't be fucking happy to see us chatting together. Inform him that I'm a pretty grumpy asshole most of the time, and I've been doing just fine without them these last few months.

But I know that's not entirely true. I've been smoking far too many cigarettes on my rooftop for it not to be some serious angsting on my part.

So, the second way it is. Being this lonely all the time fucking sucks. I want to give fixing things a shot.

"Tell her we're talking about which chassis we've unlocked," I shrug. "And tell her she's welcome to join us."

Connie grins – and I realise that it's been a long fucking time since I've seen that look. A long fucking time.

"Sure thing, man."

* * *

Sleep and I aren't on great terms that night. I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling for what seems hours, assuming the starfish position. I clamp a cigarette between my teeth, but I don't light it. I chew on it for a while, until it starts to taste gross.

Connie and I had talked _Titanfall_ for the entirety of our lunch break – until Sasha had come over, and informed him that they had to go to their next class. She hadn't been as chipper as the Sasha I'd once known, and her expression had been guarded as she tugged on Connie's jacket, whilst he was still animatedly explaining the way he had single-handedly cleared a section I was struggling on. Eventually though, she'd dragged him away, and I was left to the joys of my French class.

But his parting words circle within my head: "I'm gonna bring in this guidebook thing I got at GameStop the other day, okay? I'll show it to you tomorrow!"

I want to feel happy. Completely, one-hundred percent happy. And I'm pretty close to that.

But there's definitely a little voice in my head telling me: _you know, it can't just go back to how it was. You really fucked up back then. It's gonna take a lot of work._

I roll onto my side, drawing my knees up to my chest in the foetal position. My hand grazes across the spiral binding of my sketch book protruding from between my mattress and the wall. I run my fingers across the bumpy metal, deep in thought.

I want the smoking on the hood of Connie's pickup at the outlook. I want the ridiculous text messages at three in the morning asking me why the all-night convenience store is out of bread. I want the cries of "do it for the Vine!" as Connie debates flinging himself out of his bedroom window and onto the trampoline. I want the gaming marathons, the pebbles thrown at my window (and even the one time Sasha broke the glass), the road trips with no destination in particular.

I really want to make this work. Fuck.

* * *

**Please read and review!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** It's quite a long chapter this time... over 11k words! I hope you enjoy it~  
I changed the chapter one and two titles to the names of the songs that feature in those parts; that's going to be the theme for those now. Unfortunately, there are multiple songs mentioned in this chapter (should I have gone for Boss Ass Bitch as the title for this one?).

The title is reference to the song that Connie and Jean listen to at the outlook: Old Pine, by Ben Howard. I love his music. It's very nostalgic and reminds me of the summer - and of course, this story is taking place in the summer, and deals with Jean looking back over a lot of things. This music will also serve as inspiration for later chapters, so I really recommend giving it a listen.

Other than that... things are progressing, if slowly. I'm glad Jean's happy, if it's only gonna be for a little while. But Connie and Sasha are my faves, always. And Shingeki No Snapchat is my fave of fave AUs.

**Chapter Four:** Old Pine

* * *

Going twelve months without talking to anyone other than your mom (and being talked _at_, by your dad), is tough. I have very much got first-hand experience of that.

So, with Connie's sudden barrelling back into my life without warning, I'm sitting somewhere on the brink of pretty-fucking-ecstatic, and shit-this-definitely-cannot-be-for-real. I know being a grumpy, pessimistic asshole comes kinda easily to me, but I really can't help it how my mind keeps inventing scenarios for what will be Monday morning, when I try to talk to Connie, and he just blanks me again.

Things like this revolve around and around in my head, and I find myself completely unable to sit still without fidgeting for more than five minutes at a time.

I try the usual things to keep my mind of the inevitable torrent of _what-ifs_: I take as long as humanly possible to choose what to wear, poring over exactly which of my near-identical band shirts would be the best for today (I wind up choosing a red and white _London Calling_ shirt which I haven't worn in a while, to the extent that it's still folded up in my drawers, and a pair of black skinnies which I practically have to dance my way into). I spend at least half an hour doing my hair, and at least another ten minutes stroking my face, deciding whether it's time to shave or not (my facial hair growing abilities are not… miraculous, shall we say).

I spritz a decent amount of chocolate Axe on my neck and wrists – if there's one thing I'm not tempted by, it's expensive deodorants. If it smells good, I don't care if it's hella cheap. I've been using the same brand ever since my dad realised that buying me expensive aftershaves probably wasn't the best way to win my affection (not that Xbox games are either, but hey, I can appreciate them slightly more, okay?).

The next stop on my "avoiding mulling over whether or not the Connie thing was simply a figment of my socially-deprived imagination" mission is to open up my Chemistry text book, and try to come to terms with the epoxide hydrolases that I was struggling over last week. No luck. The words just melt away in front of my eyes.

I drum my fingers against my temples, and grit my teeth in frustration. My mom always tells me off for the habit – tells me that I'm going to grind my teeth down to nothing. Thinking about that just makes me grind them harder.

I stare at my phone for a while – it's a new Samsung Galaxy S4, which I've shoehorned into one of those classic Nintendo Gameboy phone cases – debating whether or not it's socially acceptable to text Connie. Whether or not it'd be _weird_.

I get to the extent of having the phone in my hand, and thumbing through my pretty sparse list of contacts when I realise that I deleted his number months ago. Way to go, you fucking forgetful loser.

I groan, and throw my phone across the room – it lands with a dull thump on my bed.

I notice that there's a quiet thrum of music coming from somewhere, and after establishing that no, it's not my laptop, and no, it's not my speakers, iPod, or the record player my dad bought me for my nineteenth, I realise that it's coming from outside.

I wheel myself across to the window, and haul it up – it tends to stick when the weather's hot like this.

The chorus of MCR's _Sing_ bounces around inside my ears, and I shield my eyes from the sun as I peer out into the back yard. There's a set of speakers hooked up to an extension lead on the steps of the pool shed, and Marco's equipment is piled neatly around them. But no Marco to be seen.

I lean further out the window, trying to get a full view of the yard, but it's a no-man's land right now. I briefly wonder if my mom's just gone and run off with him, to have done with it. Some shit like that wouldn't actually surprise me, I decide.

It's a shame, if Marco's been kidnapped by my mom, I muse, because there's a guy who's easy to understand. There's no doubt that if I say "hi" to him, he's gonna say "hi" back. Now if only Connie and the rest of them could be so simple.

Marco emerges from the pool shed at that moment, belting out the lines about singing for the ones that'll hate your guts (or that's what I reckon he's saying), and drumming his hands on his thighs as he walks. He glances up at my window, and pauses in his tracks when he sees me leaning out. He smiles self-consciously, and bends down to turn off his iPod.

"I didn't realise anyone was in," he calls up to me, hand on the back of his neck out of nervous habit. I guess my mom must've gone out to the store, or something.

"_I_ didn't realise the MCR was still a thing," I shoot back sarcastically, watching as his face begins to turn dark red. Obviously he was not counting on me witnessing his little sing-along for a second time.

"I can turn it off if you don't like it," he replies, "If you're trying to study."

I glance over my shoulder at my open Chemistry text book. Trying to study, yes. Failing to study, also yes.

"Nah," I call back, folding my arms on the window sill. "'S alright. I'm not really doing anything." I add as an afterthought: "Feel free to continue to uh… _serenade_ the neighbours with your singing voice. I won't stop you."

Marco rolls his eyes – something which I've not seen him do before, and turns the speakers back on, just adjusting the volume a little lower. He retrieves the skimmer, and sets it sail in the pool to eat up some of the non-existent _crap_ that mom insists _is_ in there.

I must've been watching him potter around for at least a couple of minutes, before he calls back up to me.

"… You're really _not_ doing anything, are you?"

Shit. Didn't mean to stare. I bolt upright, and smack my head off the upper sash of the window in true loser fashion.

"Oh, _fuck_!" I grimace loudly, clutching the top of my head. It feels like I've split my skull open. Fucking hell!

"Are you okay?" Marco chuckles, trying to feign some sort of compassion, when really he's finding my _incomparable_ pain amusing. What a jerk.

"Shut up!" I call back, rubbing my hands through my hair, trying to sooth the sharp throbbing. "I'm fine!"

"You should get an ice pack for that," comes his musical voice, as I screw my eyes shut. "You might have a concussion."

Well, at least _that_ knocks any and all thoughts of Connie out of my head.

I stagger downstairs, gripping the bannister with all my might, as I feel I'm pretty fucking close to seeing literal stars. There's a note on the kitchen counter from my mom, which I glance at as I pass – something about popping out to somewhere, and doing something – oh _man_, my head _kills_.

I grab a handful of ice from the fridge, and am about to press it to my temple, when Marco raps his knuckles far-too-loudly on the window. He says something, but I can't quite hear him, because of the general buzzing in my ears. I squint at him (as if that would somehow make me be able to hear him better?), and point at the back door. He gets the message.

"Don't put the ice directly on your scalp," he says as he opens the door, stepping into the kitchen. "You might damage the skin." He looks around the kitchen briefly, and spots a washcloth draped over the oven door handle. "Here." He hands it to me. Practically having to put it in my hand himself, because my hand-eye coordination is a little dodgy. "Wrap the ice in this, and then put it on your head."

I do as he instructs, and return the ice-pack to where the throbbing has died down a little. The coldness stings a little, and I breathe out a necessary "fuck". Marco then pulls out one of the bar stools, and steers it across the floor towards me.

"Sit," he commands.

Again, I do as he says, despite wobbling a bit as I haul myself up onto the high seat.

"_Fuck_," I curse again, cradling my forehead in the washcloth. "I haven't fucking done that before. Jesus _Christ_."

"And I wouldn't advise doing it again," Marco adds, causes me to scoff. He sort of drifts behind me, maintaining an odd distance between us. "Do you mind if I have a look?"

"_Knock yourself out_," I joke, seeing him shake his head at my poor pun from the corner of his eye. "You know how to treat a concussion as well as clean pools?"

"Yeah, I do," he replies softly. He gently presses his hands onto my scalp, parting my hair carefully. I move the ice pack so that he can cop a better feel. "Where does it hurt?"

A breath leaves me lips as a sharp hiss as his fingers prod at the tender spot.

"_There_," I growl under my breath. Marco lightens his touch, but continues to inspect the area of my head with cautious fingertips.

"Well, it looks like there's some swelling," he states, "But nothing else. Let me just try one more thing."

He turns the bar stool around, so that I'm facing up at him – his mouth is drawn in a tight line, and his brows are furrowed in concentration. I take a sharp breath in – regretting it when a pain shoots through my temple – and am met with the earthy smell of his obviously camomile-scented laundry detergent, mixed with the distinct whiff of chlorine. I return the ice pack to my head, relishing the coolness this time.

He holds up his finger in front of my face, and I stare at it blankly.

"I need you to touch my finger, and then your nose, and then my finger again, as quickly as you can," he informs me. "It's just a normal concussion test."

I frown, but do as he says, poking his finger with mine, then pressing my nose, and then his finger again. Marco's mouth forms a smile, and he seems pleased.

"I don't think you have a concussion," he says. "Just a bad knock. Keep the ice on it for a while, okay?"

"I suppose you'll be wanting to be paid for the diagnosis, as well as the pool this week," I joke, as Marco takes a step back to lean against the counter. I lose the scent of his clothes from my peripheral. "Where'd you learn that trick? Were you a doctor who decided to throw it all in for the pool-cleaning business or something?"

Marco abashedly scratches the hair behind his ear, and shrugs.

"Well, that's not far off the truth," he admits, and I quirk my eyebrows in surprise. "You go to Trost U, right?"

"Yeah, I do," I nod, adjust my hand as the ice begins to slip a little from my grasp. He must've noticed the Trost University logo on one of my shirts. "Did you go?"

It's strange, because he doesn't look like he could be older than about twenty one or twenty two, yet if he'd finished seven years of med-school, that would make him… what, at least twenty five, or more. He doesn't look it. Maybe it's the freckles.

"I did a year," he admits, "Pre-med." Well, that explains that. He's probably only a year older than me. Still doesn't quite account for the fact pool cleaning kinda doesn't have a patch on being a doctor. Even if I was _unconscious_, I'd still be able to tell him that.

"Not up your street or something?"

He bites his lip, and there's a moment of silence before he chooses to answer. It is a bit weird to be telling the son of your employer your life story, I can get that.

"No," he says slowly, curling his fingers over the edge of the counter he's propped up against. "No, I really enjoyed it. But… family issues, you know? It couldn't be avoided."

He returns his dark gaze to look at me again, his tone shifting a lot lighter in an instant.

"You didn't actually think I'd _chosen_ for my life's ambition to be pool cleaning, did you?" He smiles, but it feels hollow. I'd offer him an affirming laugh, but… it'd feel just as fake.

I recall the assumptions I'd made when mom first informed me of the new pool cleaner. _Speedo-wearing, college drop-out._ Well, I was partially right. No speedos in sight, thankfully. But that doesn't mean I don't feel guilty anyway. I wasn't thinking of college drop-out in this sense.

I aim to try to lighten the mood that has quietly descended over our conversation.

"You must've known Bert then," I muse. "He's second year pre-med. Bertholdt Hoover?"

Marco's face instantly lights up in recognition.

"Yeah, I do! I mean, I did, but… yeah, I know him," he grins. That smile is infectious. "You do too?"

I inform him how I sort of know Reiner Braun, the Trost Titans' line backer, through Connie, and thus, by association, I know Bert. Marco nods: he knows Reiner too. I recount the tale of the first time I met the two of them at one of Connie and Sasha's house parties, and how Reiner tends to put people in headlocks when he's drunk. Including me. Especially me.

"It's a small world," Marco laughs, as I finish telling him how I had bruises around my neck for a whole week after that. He glances at his watch, and then outside, and I think I hear the smallest of sighs as he straightens up.

"Right then," he says, "I've got a pool to clean."

I find myself feeling unusually disappointed that this means the end of the conversation. And that this means I must return to my room and dwell over Chemistry revision for the rest of the afternoon. The thought makes me head hurt more.

"You mind if I sit outside with you?" I venture to ask. "I don't think I can physically cope with any more revision. It's making me want to jump out my window, instead of just… hit my head on it."

"Sure," Marco chimes, "I don't mind. Your mom does it all the time anyway."

"I'd like to hope that me and my mom have _slightly_ different agendas."

The patio is slightly too far away from the pool to be able to hold a decent enough conversation, so I opt to perch on the steps of the pool shed, which is at least out of the sun. The skimmer is still making its way around the edge of the pool, but has so far missed the small collection of leaves floating in the centre of the water – Marco retrieves his net, and starts about making a long arm to fish the debris out.

"So, a doctor, huh?" I remark casually. "That's some pretty serious shit. How long have you wanted to do that?"

"… A while, I guess?" Marco replies, smiling to himself, as he empties the content of the net into a bucket. "I'm one of those people who've never changed what they've wanted to do with their life since they were five."

"So, what, you're gonna pick the medicine thing back up, then? When the family problems go away?"

His smile slips a little, and is distinctly sadder. I'm probably nosing around where I shouldn't be. I'm usually quite good at that. But he continues to oblige me.

"Maybe. I'd like that. I mean, cleaning pools four days a week, and then bar tending on two other nights is not really how I'd like my life to go. But… it's money."

I lean forward, resting my elbow on my knees, and then my chin in my palm. The ice pack in my other hand is beginning to lose its coolness.

"I'm jealous," I admit, with a wolfish grin. "You know what you wanna do with your life. I wish I had that, man."

"But what are you majoring in?" he asks, hands crossed over the base of the net's handle, now looking directly at me. His gaze doesn't make me squirm though – not like when _relatives_ ask the same question.

"Dunno," I tell him honestly, with a shrug. "Nothing I really wanna pick. I'm taking Chemistry, Philosophy, Math, European History, and French at the moment, but… well, I'm not _amazing_ at anything, ya' know? I think my dad wants me to major in something like business or finance, or some other boring BS. Only reason I even went to uni this year was because he says I need a degree to take over his shitty company."

"Your art though," he hums, barely waiting for breath as I finish speaking. Heat creeps up the back of my neck. I avert my gaze, pressing my toes into the grass. "You've definitely got a talent in that, Jean. You should major in that."

I'm not sure how to respond. Maybe I'm not used to genuine praise like that. Usually it's just: _oh, you got an A in French, but what about your Chemistry grade? Your Math grade?_

"I dunno, man," I murmur. The pool boy is not the person I expected to be telling _my_ life story to. I never really planned on telling _anyone_ this stuff, if I'm honest. But Marco's got a countenance unlike anyone I've ever met. The sorta person whom it feels as natural as breathing opening up to. The words will just tumble out, however hard I held onto them in the past. "The parents don't know about that. Don't think they'd take well to it, somehow."

I'm not gonna deny that the thought of an art major, or even art school, ever crossed my mind. But, when it did, it was a very much unreachable daydream. So I never really bothered to even try to reach it. I just accepted.

I'm not brave enough to try and do otherwise.

"Plus, I doubt I'm good enough," I add, exhaling through my nose. "It's only a hobby. 'S not like anyone really wants those shitty little scribbles."

I hear Marco sigh, and look up. He's staring down into the pool water, forehead creased in, what… frustration?

"You strike me as more of a …leader than a follower, Jean," he says quietly. "You gotta believe that you're good enough to do what _you_ want to do."

Well, that was creepily… profound.

"How can you say that," I scoff, bringing the now-melting ice pack away from my head, setting it on the steps beside me. "You barely know me, Freckles."

He shrugs. "Just do."

The moment is short lived, however, as the back door clammers against the side of the house, and my mom totters out into the yard, her shrill voice making my head pound. I wince at Marco, and he smiles sympathetically back, before returning to scooping leaves out of the pool, to the sound of My Chemical Romance's _Danger Days_ album.

* * *

On Sunday, my mom makes sure that I take plenty of bed rest, despite the fact that _Dr. Marco assured me I didn't have a concussion, okay!_

I think maybe she secretly enjoys having someone who she can forcibly make dependant on her. And I suppose it's not _too_ bad a position to be in, when I can just text her, and she brings me up a massive chicken and bacon sandwich.

The only downer is that now, I'm not just thinking about what Connie's going to be like on Monday. I'm also dwelling on what Marco said about choosing something mental, like art, as my major. Even fucking better position to be in, thanks very much.

I try to distract myself by drawing – but half way through a quick scribble of Mikasa, I realise I've given her freckles.

I roll my eyes, and flip the page without even bothering to erase the mistake, starting a fresh on an actual drawing of my pool boy-turned-accident-confidant. Short, shallow undercut. Freckles like Ymir's. Smile like Historia's. It looks alright.

* * *

So, Monday. Math. One of my classes with Connie.

I'm there earlier than usual, primarily due to the fact that my Sunday spent in bed meant that I woke up before my alarm, feeling refreshed, but also like I'd wasted a weekend of precious revision time. I use the half hour before the class is due to start to quell some of the guilt, by running through some Math questions by myself.

Connie's last to arrive. He rushes in out of breath, his eyes darting around the room to see if Pixis has made it before him. He's safe.

Whilst Armin occupies the seat to my left, the seat to my right is still free, so Connie automatically makes a bee-line for it, swinging his battered rucksack onto the desk with a loud _thunk_. That'll be the back-breaker that is taking both Philosophy and European History for you.

"You wouldn't believe the parking lot this morning," he gushes, all his words spilling out in one garbled, wheezing breath. "Twenty minutes to find a spot. Twenty minutes!"

Well, that answers my main question.

"You have the same problem every day," Armin says, leaning around me. "Why don't you leave earlier in the morning?"

"I _do_ leave early," Connie complains loudly, earning some glares from the rows in front of us. "If I left any _earlier_ it'd basically still be _yesterday_. It's because Sasha's pooling with me now. She takes so _long_ in the mornings to leave her house, oh my God!"

It crosses my mind why, exactly, Connie would take such a detour to pick up Sasha every morning, who lives the other side of the freeway to him, but I'm interrupted by Pixis' arrival in the lecture theatre.

The lecture is dull. I blank out for most of it, doodling on the corner of my note pad, whilst Connie's stores next to me get progressively louder. I don't know how he gets away with it so often. Armin, of course, is astutely taking notes. I'm glad someone is. I'll need those later.

When Pixis finally calls it a day, and leaves, I debate whether or not I'm supposed to wait for Connie before heading to the cafeteria to grab a snack. But, he doesn't leave me time to think, because as soon as Pixis leaves the room, he's awake again.

"Hey, I brought in that _Titanfall_ book I was talking about on Friday!" he grins, unzipping his bag, "You wanna see?"

"Uh, I'm kinda …hungry – you wanna head to the cafeteria and look at it there?" I offer, scratching the back of my neck in a Marco-esque sorta awkwardness. This is all a bit surreal. It's like Connie's forgotten the last twelve months even happened.

"Sure!" he agrees, and we leave the Math department together, Connie rapidly spouting all the things he got up to this weekend in my ear, whilst I'm just focusing hard on not being dazed enough to walk headlong into a door. I just about manage that.

The cafeteria is not too busy, and my usual table is vacant, so we throw our bags down, and I offer to go get us both coffees and something to eat. (I guess Connie definitely hasn't missed my wallet, because he doesn't even try to politely protest. I don't really care though. It's dad's money at the end of the day.)

In the queue to pay, I notice that out table has been surrounded by a small group of people; I spot Mikasa's black hair in the midst immediately, and then Eren on her flank, talking to Connie. He's shaking his head at something Eren's saying, and then Eren's shrugging, and then they're on their way, leaving Connie alone once more. I guess they're asking him why he's suddenly hanging out with a deadbeat. I would also like to ask that, not gonna lie.

"I literally don't understand how you can like your coffee this fucking sugary," I say as I approach, handing him the steaming, polystyrene cup. "Fucking grim, man." I take the seat opposite him, and test my coffee. Still approximately the same temperature as a volcano.

"Sasha's fault," he shrugs casually. "I didn't even like coffee before starting here. But now if I go without it for a day I'm like… a zombie or something. All bleeeeggggh." He makes a twisted face to illustrate his point. I snort loudly.

His voice then takes on a softer tone.

"I'm glad you're talking to me again, man," he says, between sips of coffee. His eyes are focused on nothing in particular, save maybe the questionable brown stains on the table. "I was real worried that you might just blank me again this morning. I was worrying about it all weekend."

I run my finger around and around the rim of my cup, screwing up my mouth in thought. He thought _I_ was going to blank _him_. I feel a wave of relief wash over me.

"Nah man… I wouldn't do that." It doesn't strike me straight away that the distance over the last twelve months may not have been just a one way thing. I feel like I've gained a few necessary, Connie-shaped pieces to fix the hole that I probably had a hand in causing.

Not just probably. Definitely. King of the colossal fuck-ups. That's me.

* * *

Connie and I sit next to each other in all three of the classes we share together, and I become increasingly aware of the serious side-eye I'm receiving from a lot of the others when we pass them in the hallways, or Connie passes up the seat Eren saved for him in European History.

This continues into Tuesday, to the extent that I can't shake off the thought that every single group of people we pass are whispering about the fact that _would you look at that, someone's talking to Jean again_. Despite the fact that I don't know most of them. Of course it's just a dose of crazy-ass paranoia. But still.

By the time it gets to lunch break, I'm literally bristling because I'm _that_ on edge.

"Dude, are you constipated or something?" Connie remarks through a mouthful of burger. He looks a bit like a hamster, stuffing his face like that. "You look like you're constipated."

"I'm not constipated," I spit – but Connie doesn't seem to care, continuing to chow down on his lunch. "It's just… is it me or everyone staring at us? Doesn't it… freak you out?"

Connie shrugs.

"No, not really."

"They're probably talking about us too."

"Not my problem." He eyes my untouched plate of fries, and waggles his eyebrows. "Are you gonna eat those?"

I sigh, and push my plate towards him. He grabs are more-than-generous handful, shoving them into his face.

"Whaaar arsiff wreed bow'?" he mumbles. Translation: _what are you so worried about?_ He gulps down the half-chewed food, and continues: "It's their problem if they're concerned about the fact I'm talking to you again."

I take a fry, and inspect it for a prolonged moment, before nibbling off the end. Needs ketchup.

"Do Eren and that lot still… you know… talk about what happened?" It wouldn't surprise me. Eren's nose is still as wonky as the French fry I'm currently messing with. Knowing his ego, he's probably never gonna be over _that_.

"No-one really brings it up anymore. 'S in the past now."

"I doubt that," I mutter.

The only person who has even bothered to come within a foot of us, since Connie decided to fuck the social rules re: avoiding me, has been Armin. But it's not like he didn't before hand – he just doesn't have it in him to physically dislike someone that bad.

So it surprises me to see Sasha sidling up to our table, the same look of reluctance on her face as I spotted her wearing on Friday, when I caught her spying on us from across the cafeteria.

"Connie, we gotta get to Theatre," is all she says, trying her hardest to keep herself from looking too much in my direction. I don't blame her. I instinctively hunch inward on myself, resting my head in my hand. Connie begins to gather his stuff, being sure to grab another fistful of fries from my plate as he stands.

"Want one?" he says, gesturing to the plate. Sasha shakes her head. First time in living memory I've ever seen her refuse potato based snacks. This obviously concerns Connie too, because a frown appears on his face. "Your loss, Sash."

He slings his rucksack over his shoulder, and turns back to me.

"You don't have class on a Wednesday, do you?" I glance up at him – Sasha has already started walking away, although she looks over her shoulder, to see what's holding Connie. I think she hesitates, debating whether or not to turn back. "You wanna go to the outlook tomorrow, or something?"

"Don't you have lectures tomorrow?"

"I can skip 'em," he replies nonchalantly. "I can swing by around lunch, if you want?"

I find myself nodding. He smiles warmly.

"Great."

* * *

On Wednesday, I'm woken up by the incessant buzzing of my phone on my night stand. I scrabble for it, but with my eyes still pretty much glued closed by sleep gunk, I knock it onto the floor. A low _ugh_ leaves my mouth, and I haul myself onto the floor particularly ungracefully, curling my hand around the case of my cell.

"Y'ello?" I mumble into the receiver, rubbing my eyes with my fingers dopily. "What time 's it?"

"Like midday," comes Connie's voice loudly – far too fucking loudly – down the line. "Get your ass out of bed already! I'm parked out back." He hangs up abruptly, and I sit holding the phone to my ear for a couple dazed minutes, my mind still half asleep.

I literally crawl over to my closet, extracting a shirt and a pair of jeans, which I don't really check to see if they're socially acceptable. It takes some further confusion, when I eventually upright myself and look in the mirror, to realise that I've put on the shirt backwards.

I manage to look vaguely presentable after ten minutes of running a hand through my bed hair; I'm not too fussed, because if you've ever seen the state of Connie's pickup, you'll know that no-one's gonna judge you on what _you're_ wearing. It looks like it's been dropped out of a plane, and then run over by a tank. And then had someone attempt to repair it with paint that doesn't quite match the original dirty-green colour.

I grab my half-finished pack of Marlboro's from my desk drawer, and shove them in my back pocket, along with my lighter. I should really have picked some more up at the store last night, but all I could think about was burying myself in my pillow. I guess I should be cutting back on the smokes anyway.

My mom's in the kitchen, talking amicably on the phone as I slink to the back door – I force her a smile which hopefully says: _going out, I'll come back sometime, don't try to ring me_. I don't think she really notices.

Wednesday, of course, is Marco day. Sure enough, there he is on the pool side, in his usual blue polo shirt and khaki-shorts combo, net in hand. He's got a pair of knock-off Ray-Ban's resting on the top of his head, this time.

"Hey," he smiles, as I pass him, "How's the head?"

"'S fine, actually," I reply, as my phone vibrates loudly in my hand. I glance down at the screen, and see the first few lines of a text from Connie rolling across the top:

**From: 614-XXX-XXXX  
stop prissying ur ugly face up and get ur butt out here already !**

"Are you going out somewhere?" Marco asks, as I shove my cell into my jeans' pocket, without replying. His tone seems mildly wary – but then I realise I'm still scowling. I try to soften my expression up.

"Yeah, going up to the outlook," I reply. Marco nods his head in acknowledgement, his smile replaced by a firm line across his mouth. "You been?"

He opens his mouth to reply, but we're both rudely interrupted by Connie flinging himself wildly against the gate.

"Jeeeeaaaaaaaaan, hurry up!" he shouts. I wince. Marco looks alarmed, to say the least. "I've been waiting for ages!"

"I'm coming, you idiot!" I shoot right back, to which Connie makes a face. I reach into my back pocket and wriggle out a cigarette, which I slip between my teeth. It bobs up and down as I talk. "Sorry Marco, man. I gotta go."

Marco smiles pleasantly – that typical freckled Jesus sorta smile, and that makes me feel a little guilty.

"Jeeeeaaaaaaaan," comes Connie's whine again. _Alright, alright, I'm fucking coming._

* * *

If the roof of my house has good views, the outlook has _spectacular_ views.

When I say outlook, it's not really an actual outlook. Maybe it used to be, because there's an old dirt track that wiggles along the hill top, and sort of just… stops at the edge, but there's more than enough space to park a couple cars.

At this time of day, we're the only ones there.

I'm already slipping out of the passenger seat as Connie pulls up the hand break, and spins the dial on his shitty stereo up to full blast, enjoying the feeling of a cool wind in my face amidst this fucking ridiculous weather. Trost seems to shimmer below us, the skyscrapers of midtown wobbling against the blue sky on the horizon. I breathe it in.

Connie hops up onto the hood of his pickup, and makes himself comfortable against the windshield. He begins to roll out a spliff on his lap.

"You want one?" he offers, but I shake my head as I clamber up to join him. I'm fine with just my regular cigarettes. Plus, I can vividly imagine how my mom wouldn't hesitate to cut off my balls if I came home smelling even vaguely like grass.

"Nah, I'm alright," I say, lighting the cigarette between my lips. I inhale the smoke into my lungs, and then breathe out slowly. The white, nicotinous clouds rise lazily up into the sky.

The DJ introduces a song I don't recognise on the radio. It's mellow, and suits the moment. I lean my head back against the glass, and close my eyes, the wistful lyrics seeping into my ears.

_The summer shone beat down on bony backs |So far from home where the ocean stood |Down dust and pine cone tracks…_

"Been a while since we've done this," Connie murmurs. I open one eye to look at him lazily. "Was never the same without you, man. Sasha doesn't smoke anymore."

"I haven't been up here since then," I admit. "Kinda missed it." My roof top's got nothing on it, that's for sure.

We fall into silence again, until the songs finishes. The haze is broken by a string of obnoxiously loud commercials.

"Sasha and I started going out, you know."

My cigarette falls from my mouth, and burns my thigh through my jeans. I bat it off with a sharp _fuck_ under my breath. Connie doesn't budge, but continues to watch me, not drawing on his cigarette.

"Are you pulling my leg?" I exclaim, eyes wide.

"Nope. It's for real."

I stare at him for a long time. The problem is not that it's a surprise. No, it's far from a fucking surprise. Connie's been head over heels in love with Sasha since we were approximately nine years old and she beat him in a mud wrestle in my back yard. I remember him whispering in my ear, when her mom came to pick her up (entirely distressed by her dirt-caked state), that he was going to marry her one day. I had told him that was gross.

The surprise is the fact that he'd actually acted upon that. I remember coming back to junior high after one summer when Sasha hadn't been around (her parents had taken her upstate to visit relatives for a couple weeks), and suddenly, it wasn't muddy Sasha anymore. It was hey-when-did-you-suddenly-become-not-nine anymore, Sasha. Connie had been more of a spluttering mess than I was.

I spent most of junior high trying to persuade him to ask her out, but he would always vehemently deny that he liked her in that way, because we'd all grown up together, and she was more like his sister. _Yeah right_, is what I said to that every time.

When Connie had first got his hair cut in the first term of high school – to the way he wears it now – Sasha had avoiding saying two words to him for the entire week. Every time we'd pass her in the hallways, she'd duck her head and go bright red – and then Connie would moan to me for the rest of the day about how Sasha was hiding something from us. _Not from us_, I remember thinking. _From you, you absolutely gigantic loser._ Because the fact had been that Sasha had confided in me that she really liked Connie's new hairstyle. _Really, really liked._

Eventually, I had decided that if they were both too dense to see the fact that they were head over heels for each other, it wasn't worth my tireless effort to try to make them understand, and left them to it.

"Shit," I murmur. "Since when?"

"Three weeks or so, I guess?" he says, puffing on his cigarette. "She asked me out on my birthday."

I can't help but laugh. Typical Sasha.

"Right on," I smirk, running my tongue across my teeth. I honestly never thought I'd live to see the day. I light another cigarette to replace the one I'd dropped prematurely.

"… We haven't told anyone yet," Connie then adds, taking me even more by surprise. This time, he takes his cigarette away from his mouth, and holds it over the side of the car as embers and ash fall away. "I haven't even told my parents yet. I told you _before my mom_, man."

"I feel honoured," I say, and I really fucking do. We've been doing this friend thing a grand total of four days. "Doesn't mean I won't tease you about it though."

Connie smirks, and punches me on the arm playfully, causing me to cough on the smoke at the back of my throat.

"What?" I splutter through a grin, "It's my job. It's been my life's mission since we were nine years old, and here I am discovering you went and did that shit without me? Hell man, you owe me."

We both laugh together – I feel both literally and figuratively on top of the world.

"What about you then?" he beams, "What's new with you?"

"If you're asking whether or not Mikasa's finally fallen head over heels in love with me-" I pause dramatically, and Connie sniggers. "Well, that'd be a surprising no!"

"It's okay, man! We've still got our bromance… even if I have a girlfriend now, nothing will come between us!" he vigorously slings and arm around my shoulders, and pulls me into a headlock. I question how much of what he's smoking has gone to his head, and how much of what he's saying is genuine Connie nonsense that I'm still not accustomed to. It doesn't matter either way, as I burst out laughing again.

"I can't breathe… can't breathe!" I laugh, slapping him on the forearm that he has looped around my neck as he inflicts an aggressive noogie. "Let me go, let me go!"

He complies, but not before I knock him upside of the head with my palm.

"So no beautiful, sexy stranger walked into your life lately?" Connie winces, rubbing the spot where I'd hit him; I snort loudly, blowing out a long cloud of smoke from my mouth. Alas, no. No beautiful strangers.

Tall, dark, and very, _very_ buff strangers, on the other hand…

I genuinely choke on my cigarette.

"Jesus Christ!" Connie exclaims, pounding me on the back as I spit a wad of saliva onto the sandy ground beside me. "_How_ long have you been smoking, Jean?!"

I wave him away feebly, rubbing the base of my neck with my hand to try and ease my suffering. _Ever talk about a rogue thought…_

Connie changes the subject, and delves into some stories about what's been going on with the people I once called my friends. He tells be about how Eren can't stop going on about the older guy who lives in the flat above him and Mikasa in their apartment block. He recounts woefully the tale of how he went to hang out with Bert and Reiner the other day, who ditched him in the living room with their completely unsociable neighbour, Annie (who apparently gives Ymir a run for her money in the scary factor), whilst they made out _loudly_ upstairs. He mutters about how his Biology professor, Hanji, gave him detention, when all he was doing was trying to reply to Sasha's snap chat in class.

I absorb all the information like a god damn sponge, staring up at the empty sky as he continues to talk at me, jumping from story to story.

"Your turn to tell a story," he demands. Looking at him, his eyes are so red now, that I think he might just pass out before I even reply. He has slightly more will power than I give him credit for.

"Nothing interesting to say," I shrug. Well, nothing that won't be a serious downer on the conversation, that's for sure. Connie obviously notices my shoulders droop, despite how high he probably is (and definitely looks).

"Well, you're sure thinking of something," he prompts, leaning closer to me. His breath fucking reeks of weed. "So spill."

I roll my eyes. It's not just one thing; it's a big-ass combination, and we'd be here all night if I were to tell him everything that's on my chest. So I settle for the big one.

"I discovered my dad's having an affair," I say. Connie doesn't seem to react, and I wonder if he's literally passed out with his eyes open. "Fucking one of his secretaries. Or maybe all of them. Who knows."

A disgruntled mumble comes from Connie's lips, and he slumps lower against the windshield. He presses the stump of his spliff out against the shitty paint job on the hood.

"Well that's a bit shit," he mutters. _Tell me about it, man_, I think. "Does Mrs K. know?"

I shake my head. "Don't think so. I doubt she's stupid enough that it hasn't crossed her mind though." It hurts me a little to say those words. There's a part of me – and quite a significant part of me – that doesn't want her to know. Ever. Because what would happen after that? Would they get a divorce? What would happen to the house? Who would I end up living with? Or even worse, would mom just overlook it and take him back out of saving face?

I screw my eyes as tightly shut as possible.

"The worst part is that I'm kinda… helping my dad to hide it from her," I groan. Here comes the unavoidable wave of shame. "Intercepting phone calls and stuff. But like… I wanna _protect_ my mom, you know? Because my dad's a dick."

"That… sucks," is the extent of the eloquence that Connie offers to the table. "I sure wouldn't know what to do."

We laze around at the outlook for a few hours, enjoying the thrum of the pickup's radio, and the views of the city of Trost. I don't enjoy the way my legs feel like they might have melted onto the car's hood though, and that's the eventual cause of calling it a day.

As we slide back into the cabin, Connie gets a phone call from Sasha. His ring tone is _Boss Ass Bitch_, by Nicki Minaj. Oh God. Please let that be a prank.

"Hey, Sash," he answers, leaning over the steering wheel. I put out my final cigarette, and toss it out the window carelessly. "No, I can still pick you up. Yeah… yeah, I'm just leaving the outlook. Yeah... with Jean. Uh-huh. Okay, no prob. Save some for me, alright? See you in fifteen." As an afterthought, he adds a tentative, "… love you." I smirk as he hangs up the phone.

"Shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

* * *

By the time Connie drops me back at my house, I've missed my chance to apologise to Marco for what an obnoxiously loud friend I have, because he's long gone, the pool sparklingly clean (not that it ever… isn't?).

"Hey, mom," I greet, as I wonder into the kitchen, straight for the fridge (I'm absolutely fucking starving… probably some degree of second-hand munchies).

"Hi darling," she smiles, looking up from where she's got a glossy magazine spread across the counter-top. She's got that serene sort of momsy expression on her face. "Was that Connie's car that I saw out there?"

"Yeah," I say casually, but the feeling she's radiating tugs a little smile of my own onto my own mouth. "We went to the outlook."

I pull up the bar stool next to her, and take a bite out of slice of cold pizza that I'd stolen from the fridge. She spins herself around to look at me, seemingly confused.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," I dismiss quickly. I take another bite of the pizza, and nod towards the magazine, in an attempt to make small talk. "What ya' reading?"

Her eyebrows quirk as much as they can on her Botox-infused forehead. She knows I'm beating around the bush, and informs me as much with her expression.

"What is it?" she repeats, a little softer this time. I exhale gently, and give in, reaching across the space between us, and wrapping my arms around her shoulders. She stiffens for a moment, but then relaxes, bringing her hands up to my back, rubbing up and down my shoulder blades in a soothing motion. She doesn't say anything, and I'm glad of that.

I pin this moment to memory.

_Sorry, mom. This is the best I can do for you right now._

* * *

The rest of the week passes by with nothing explicitly out of the ordinary. I don't notice the glances and whispering as much as I did before – and I don't really have time, because teasing Connie about his top-secret relationship is a lot higher on my evil agenda.

I do, on the other hand, notice the way my mom develops a habit of touching me gently on the shoulder whenever she passes me in the house. I don't know if she realises she does it, but it fills me with a mixture of contentness at our closeness, but also horrific fucking misery. Because obviously she knows something's the matter. But I'm not gonna tell her. I can't.

When Saturday comes around, I find myself looking forward to having another person around, who's not shooting me sorrowful glances every time we're in the same room. Love you, mom. But I might just be going insane with this right now.

With exactly four weeks to go until my finals start, I reach the stage of realising: _gotta start revising properly, or face genuine failure_. And however much I don't really give a shit about any of my subjects, I don't really like failing. I guess I'm a try hard by nature.

My mom suggests that I try revising outside (because apparently I'm so pale that I look like the undead – thanks, mom), and even offers to run through some flash cards with me – but only as long as I let her ogle Marco without complaining. I find myself agreeing to this proposition with a roll of my eyes.

Marco is as cheery and sunny as ever when he arrives, and my mom bats her eyelashes so fast that I reckon she might take off.

"_Mom_," I stress, "Eyes. On. The. French."

"Yes, yes, I am looking," she says – but she is definitely not doing anything like looking at my French notes that she's meant to be testing me on. "_Que partie voulez-vous que je lise_?" She doesn't even turn to face me, let alone glance at the cards in her hands. God, I hate the fact that she's fluent in French.

"Read the bit about… _Pouvez-vous lire la question à propos d'Alexandre Dumas_?" I reply. My mom frowns.

"I thought you were studying 21st century literature on your course?" she says. "_Et, tu accent est épouvantable. Tu mamie aurait honte_."

"There's a reason I don't talk to _mamie_ in French," I mutter below my breath, as my mom sets about pouring three glasses of lemonade. I snatch one away from her as soon as I can, slurping loudly as I gulp down a few mouthfuls. She pulls a face, before calling over to Marco to come and have something to drink.

He jogs over gladly, and my mom hands him one of the tumblers.

"Do you speak any other languages, Marco?" she clucks, her eyes… not on his face. Marco takes a small slip, before lowering the glass from his lips.

"No, I don't," he replies, with a bashful smile. "Languages were never my forte at school, I have to admit."

"Oh, that's a shame," she coos, dragging her eyes away from Marco's chest to look at me sulking over my notes. "You would agree with me that Jean's accent is appalling, though."

I purse my lips, and silently thank my mom for making me looks _so_ good.

"It sounded pretty good to me," Marco then divulges. He takes another sip of the lemonade, but his eyes lock with mine over the rim of the glass for the briefest moment. "French is such a beautiful sounding language."

"The language of _romance_," my mom hums, running her teeth over her lower lip, suggestively. I pinch the bridge of my nose, and try my best to blatantly ignore her behaviour. "Jean just doesn't appreciate that."

"As long as I get an A in this exam, I don't actually give a _fuck_ what it's the language of," I retort. My mom leans across the table to slap me on the wrist for my language.

Marco excuses himself to finish the pool, and I eventually manage to persuade my mom into asking some of the questions on my flash cards, although not without sporadic glances in the direction of our freckled friend.

* * *

It seems to me that Mondays have become days of change lately. This Monday is no exception.

I'm sitting at what Connie and I have now christened "our table" in the cafeteria, flicking through some of my Philosophy revision notes, whilst waiting for my coffee to cool, chomping through a plate of ketchup-drenched fries, and hoping for Connie to hurry his ass up and get out of Biology.

I'm surprised to see him stalk in, without the company of Sasha or any of the others, and head straight for where I'm sitting, a frown set concretely on his face.

"What's up?" I ask, as he slides into one of the uncomfortable, plastic chairs, tossing his bag to the side.

"Just had a run in with Eren," he sighs. I raise my eyebrow, holding the page in my Philosophy notes aloft between my fingers. I thought we had decided not to pay attention to what the others thought. "Finally bit the bullet."

"Wants to know why you're suddenly hanging out with me again, does he?"

"Something like that. I told him that I'd had enough ignoring you. Told him that we're not five anymore. You know what Eren's like." I can imagine that Connie's frankness probably didn't sit well with Eren's temper. No wonder Connie's kinda bristling here.

"Are you sorry you did it, Jean?" he asks abruptly. I drop the page of my notes, and meet his gaze. "Did the… beating the shit out of him."

"… No." I speak slowly and carefully, not lowering my line of sight. Where is this going exactly?

"And you had a reason for it, right? A good one?"

"… Yeah."

Connie breathes deeply, and I watch him physically deflate in his chair as he sinks into the plastic back. He crosses his arms across his stomach, but I don't think he's cross.

"Well, that's good enough for me."

The commotion around us in the cafeteria grows as more people arrive from their lectures; I continue to leaf through some of my theory of knowledge notes, whilst Connie seems to just glare at the door. Soon enough, Eren and company enter, and head towards a table a few rows behind us, where Ymir and Historia are already seated. I try to take no notice of it, but it's difficult when Connie's glower is practically red hot. I'm about to speak to him, when his phone vibrates on the table top. As he reaches for it, it vibrates again; I notice the sender: Eren.

Connie's eyes scan the few lines, and his scowl deepens. He hands me the phone without a word.

**From: Eren  
how long are you goin to keep humouring him**

**From: Eren  
so are u ignoring us now or what**

I breathe out through my nose, and both Connie and I twist around in our seats to look at their table; sure enough, Eren is glaring right back at us.

What happens next catches us both off guard.

A chair screeches ear-splittingly across the linoleum floor like nails down a chalkboard. The entire cafeteria practically jumps in their seats, eyes whipping 'round to look at Sasha as she rises to her feet and _slams_ her hands down on the table loudly. The sound bounces around the room.

She doesn't seem to say a word; I don't see her lips move as my eyes are fixed on her. She slings her satchel over her shoulder, turns heel, and marches straight over to our table. Eren's mouth is a gape, and from what I can see of Armin and Historia's faces, their eyes are wide. I can only imagine what the others must look like.

Sasha pulls out the chair next to Connie with as much ferocity as she did before, and sits down, resting her palms on the table top. Connie and I must look like complete idiots.

Connie manages to recover quicker than I do.

"… H-hey Sash," he manages weakly, watching her cautiously as if he's tiptoeing around something that might eat him.

Without raising her voice, Sasha simply states: "They were being idiots."

It takes me even longer to understand what's going on, as I begin to process what I think this means. Warily – very fucking warily – I remark quietly: "what's new?"

Sasha brings her eyes up to meet mine, and we stare at each other for a while. I'm not sure what I'm looking at, but she must obviously find what _she's_ looking for in my expression. Her gaze flits down to my half eaten piles of fries, and she licks her lips.

"… You gonna finish those?"

I imagine I look a bit like a fish – my mouth hanging open and all. She doesn't wait for an answer – she grabs the edge of the plate and shimmies it away from the reach of my hands. I watch my fries depart in bewilderment.

I say the most eloquent thing that comes to mind.

"You are so lame."

Sasha pops a fry in her mouth, her yellow-brown eyes still intensely locked on me. She flips her ponytail over her shoulder dramatically with her free hand.

"The lamest," she agrees.

* * *

**From: Sasha  
jean**

**From: Sasha  
jean**

**From: Sasha  
jean**

**From: Sasha  
jeaaaaaan**

**From: Sasha  
jean**

**From: Sasha  
have u seen my snapchat**

**From: Sasha  
reply to my snapchat**

**From: Sasha  
jean**

This is what I wake up to on Wednesday morning that week. I lie on my back on my bed, holding my phone up above my head, scrolling through the barrage of unread text messages that I've slept through. Another one arrives, my cell vibrating in my palm.

**From: the coolest guy youll ever know  
sasha says have u seen her snapchat yet ?**

Why did I ever let Connie put his own number back in my contact list?

I lower my arm, and rest the phone on my forehead, closing my eyes again. The air is really hot today – gross and humid – and I kick off my sheets grumbling to myself. My calves feel real sticky, and there's an uncomfortably hot sweat on the back of my neck.

I drop my phone onto my pillow, with approximately zero intention of replying right now, and stagger across to my window. I heave the glass up – it sticks in this heat, doesn't want to budge. I swear at it a couple times, in the hope that a couple _fuck you, you fucking window_ will persuade it to open. I put my shoulder into it, and it gives.

It's not like the air outside is any better – maybe it's a little less stuffy, but it's still just as goddamn hot. I wonder how socially acceptable it would be to wonder around in my boxers all day. Probably not very. Mom would definitely have something to say about that.

I yawn loudly, and stretch my arms up above my head – basically every bone from my shoulder to my wrist clicks. I sleepily rub a hand through my bedhead, staring out into the back yard through squinted eyes.

Summer weather makes me feel perpetually tired. Even if it's still only the middle of May. Or maybe this is just the results of one and half days of hauling my ass around after _double trouble_. Fuck, I had almost forgotten how much energy just being with Sasha and Connie together requires. Apparently I'd forgotten all that whilst focusing my attentions more on angsting after them these last twelve months.

Yesterday had been a little different than I'd initially expected. Initially, I'd thought it would just ten thousand times more awkward than when it was just me and Connie tailing around together. But apparently not. I had found it kinda funny to see the distance Eren was trying to keep from the three of us in the cafeteria, the hallways, and even in European History – which is only a small ass room as it is. I don't think he could've sat further away from me and Connie without literally leaving the classroom as it was.

I feel strangely happy. Strangely – because it's the sort of contentness than you can feel right down in the pit of your stomach and all through your chest, and – hell, I just never thought that'd ever be a thing again. I'm not a naturally happy person. But I feel pretty good right now.

The sun is high in the sky, shielded a little by wisps of white cloud. The trail of an aeroplane splits the blueness directly over the house. I decide to be boring, and reply to Sasha's snapchat with a picture of the view from my bedroom window (slightly more tasteful than the picture she's sent me with a record number of double-chins going on, and Connie giving her rabbit ears from behind).

She replies back within thirty seconds, her snap a photo of her sticking out her bottom lip and looking theatrically sad, overlaid with the words: _you suck_. In the background, I recognise the outside of the arts' department on campus.

This time, I reply with a picture of my smug grin, giving a thumbs up to the camera.

_well im not the one stuck at campus all day so f u_, I caption it.

Our snap chat battle continues for most of the morning, as I proceed to send Sasha photos of all the luxuries of my house, whilst she send me a torrent of increasingly sad faces. A dozen or so into our war, and she's obviously started bullying Connie to join her side, because he starts appearing in her replies.

I shortly realise that I'm alone in the house – eventually finding a post-it that my mom's pinned to the cupboard, when I wander into the kitchen to take a snap of the contents of our fridge for the potato-lover.

_I'll be out for dinner, so heat up some leftovers or get a takeaway_, it reads, little, pretentious hearts dotting all of her letter "i"s. _The money for Marco is in the normal place, so don't forget!_ She's signed it with "mom" – because I _totally_ had no clue who this note was from, sure – and a whole line of kisses.

I rip the post-it off the white-washed lacquer of the cabinet, and screw it up in my fist, before throwing it in the trash. I score a hole-in-one.

I set up my laptop and textbooks on the patio table, and after struggling to get the parasol up – for way longer than is worth the effort – I settle into a nice spot of shade.

I hear the engine of something heavy – a van probably – pull up to the curb on the other side of the hedge, and listen to a familiar hum waft through the still air as someone unlocks the truck. Moments later, and freckled Jesus is at the gate. He looks genuinely pleased to see me, judging by the way his eyebrows shoot up and his dark brown eyes join his smile.

He's a handsome sort of guy, if I can admit that in a not-gay way. Perfect for one of those mega-glam doctors you see on TV soaps; I can see him striding purposefully around a hospital ward, clad in a long white coat, stethoscope looped around his neck.

"Hi Jean," he beams; I'm reminded of a softer, kinder version of Connie's grin. Genuine. But I've used that word already.

"You alright," I offer back, with a rare non-smirk sort of smile. Might as well make the most of this good mood and try to prove that I don't_ just_ scowl 24/7.

He displays a good-natured sort of puzzlement, tilting his head to the side ever so slightly as he appraises me.

"You look happier," he then says honestly. I bring my arms around to the back of my head, and lean back into the wooden recliner. Happier? Than what, last time he saw me? Than last week? Than in general?

"Yeah," I admit, staring up at the sky; the thin clouds are starting to dissipate, leaving a great, vast blueness overhead. "Guess I am." Usually I'm not one for corniness, but it feels okay in the moment.

"Good," comes Marco's soft tenor. And then tentatively: "… It suits you."

I feel a surge of warmness spill through me at those words, starting from my chest and spreading out all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes. I quirk an amused eyebrow at him.

"Are you hitting on me, Freckles?" I tease sarcastically; he scoffs lightly and looks away, busying himself with sorting his equipment. "You gotta be careful, man. Saying stuff like that is what makes housewives fall head over heels for you."

"Don't say that," he chuckles, assembling the pool net. "It's not even true. Well… mainly not true. I think your mom is the exception."

I grin wolfishly at him.

"… Plus, I'm not going to deny that it kind of freaks me out."

"'S what you get for being too nice," I shoot back. "Even just smiling at my mom cements the idea more and more in her head that she wants to run away with you or something!"

"I don't smile that much!" he exclaims, faking distress. "Do I?"

"Oh yeah. You bet."

"I guess I'm rubbing off on you, then." Wow, Marco. Again with the lameness. I chuckle under my breath to myself. "I thought maybe your face was stuck in a frown, you know." I feign horror, and look back at him a gape; a surprising flash of wickedness crosses his eyes.

"Rude much," I proclaim. "Are you actually super sly and you're just pulling my mom and me along for a ride with your charming pool-boy persona thing? Who knew!"

The banter only affirms the general feeling of, I guess, glee in my chest right now.

"Yep, you got me," Marco sighs, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. "I am only pretending to be your friend so that I can elope with your mom. My plan has been foiled."

"Damn," I say, feeling my grin literally stretching so far across my face that it's painful. (I guess I haven't used those muscles much lately, I briefly muse.) And then I pick up on the other thing he said. "I didn't even realise we _were_ friends."

I don't mean it in a malicious or like… accusatory way – I just what comes into my head without really thinking. But Marco takes it light-heartedly nonetheless.

"I've borrowed your clothes, and treated your concussion," he smiles – fucking angelically, I'm gonna admit here. "I think that counts?"

It seems that people wanting to be friends are leaping out from all sorts of cracks lately. I'm not gonna lie to myself – Marco's the sort of person who makes you feel instantly at ease when you talk to him. Makes you feel calm, I guess. And I suppose that's as close as I can get to the therapy I'm probably gonna need from hanging around Connie and Sasha's general _mayhem_.

"Yeah," I say, first to myself, and then louder, so he can hear me. "Yeah, it does." I pause briefly. "But as long as you _promise_ you won't run off with my mom. That wouldn't be cool."

His laugh is musical.

He returns his attention to servicing the pool after that; running some chlorine tests, wandering in and out of the pool shed as he checks some of the chemical instruments that are apparently in there (well, it's called a _pool_ shed for a reason, I remark to myself. _Shouldn't surprise you that it's not just a storage shed for crap no-one throws out_.)

I'm scrolling through some online problem sets for Chemistry when my phone buzzes on the table once more. It's Sasha's reply to the fridge-photo. (She's obviously been in a class and hasn't had chance to sneakily reply until now.)

She and Connie have donned sunglasses for this one, and both have their noses turned up in the air. The caption reads: _oh yeah? well consider urself friend-dumped jean kirschtein !_

I snicker to myself. Her comment doesn't even resonate badly with me, like I might have expected (given we were only abruptly reunited two days ago and all). I twist around in my chair, to take a selfie, making sure I catch Marco in the background, and raise my middle finger to the camera.

The caption I send the photo with is: _don't need u losers anymore so suuuuuck it_

Moments later, I receive a text response.

**From: Sasha  
uhm who is that **

And then another. And another.

**From: Sasha  
are u cheating on us jean**

**From: Sasha  
what about our vows jean**

**From: Sasha  
my constant friend, my faithful partner in sickness and in health**

**From: Sasha  
i can't believe u jean**

**From: Sasha  
i thought what we had was real**

I really do wonder how she even has credit to text anyone if this is how she responds to everything she's sent. Let's hope she runs out very soon. The last text in the chain is from Connie.

**From: the coolest guy youll ever meet  
help me** **!**

I throw my head back and laugh. And boy, it feels good.

* * *

**Please read and review! I'd like to hear feed back on what people are liking and disliking about this fic so far. Constructive criticism is appreciated!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** A little more Marco in this chapter, as we're building up the friendship and laying the foundations for the major plot points to come.  
I hope this chapter reads okay; I was mildly worried writing the awkward boner scene because, well... it was so cringy. I want to go back in time and ask fifteen-year-old me how on earth I wrote anything vaguely sexual with a straight face. Because nineteen-your-old me is like an awkward schoolgirl, let me tell you.

This chapter had to be cut in half (and the rest will make up chapter 6), because it was getting so damn long... it's 12.5k words.  
The feedback everyone left after chapter 4 was really helpful! I would super appreciate any more comments regarding what you like and dislike, how the pace feels, how natural Jean's POV comes across etc. Constructive criticism is welcomed!

To come next time: Bert, Reiner, Annie... and Marco's CD collection. Make what you will of that.

**Chapter Five:** Who Are You?

* * *

It's probably to be expected that I become pretty sick of my ringtone come the third day of being victim to Sasha's constant barrage of attention seeking. I can't remember the last time I kept my phone on silent for this long, but I do know one thing: it's not coming _off_ silent for a long fucking time.

It's Saturday morning, twenty-three days before finals week starts. (Okay, so, I only know that because I'm keeping a countdown to the first day of summer. Promise.)

I'm woken up by the sun slipping through a crack on my blinds – I obviously didn't close them properly last night when I finally gave up on the revision post-midnight. I squint, and bringing a limp wrist up to cover my eyes, I groan, and roll onto my back. On my bedside table, my cell vibrates against the wood, the sound drilling into my ears. I clamber for it blindly, knocking over both my clock, and the empty coffee mug from yesterday in the process.

When my fingers clasp around the rubbery case of my phone, it takes two attempts to unlock the home screen, because I miss type the code in my general state of it's-before-midday-therefore-I'm-still-basically-asleep.

**Unread Messages: 9**

Oh, fucking hell. Scrolling through my inbox, I notice that _seven_ are from Sasha, one is from Connie, and the last is some junk mail from my network provider. I delete that one without opening it. I read the most recent one from Sasha; it takes a while for my brain to process the text.

**From: Sasha  
so we are still good for today right? **

I scowl. I try to recall if we'd made plans. I come up blank.

I begin to type out a response along the lines of: _what the fuck are you talking about?_, when I hear the sound of commotion from downstairs, the front door slamming shut, and excited voices. I just about manage to haul myself up into a sitting position on my bed when mom's voice echoes up the stairs and beneath my door.

"Jeeeeeaaaaan! Are you up yet? Connie and Sasha are here!"

I have approximately ten seconds of dopey bewilderment before footsteps rattle up the stairs, my door is flung open with all the force of a hurricane, and I'm being tackled into my mattress by a flying bald guy.

"Whaaaa—!"

"Don't tell me you forgot about our revision session, Jean!" Sasha proclaims, standing at the end of my bed, wide stance, hands on hips. I heave Connie's arm out of my face as he continues to bounce up and down with far too much freaking energy than necessary at this point in the day. "Didn't Connie tell you we were coming 'round?"

I glare at the bouncing, bald one. Thanks, Connie. Thanks _so_ much.

"No," I hiss, "He didn't."

"I totally did!" he exclaims wildly, flopping back onto my legs. "I told you about it in Philosophy yesterday!" I'm more than one-hundred percent certain that this was a conversation we had in his mind, and not in real life. But what does it matter. _They're here now_. Goodbye peaceful day.

Goodbye peaceful day _chatting to Marco_.

I wriggle my hands under my sheets and try to lever Connie off of me, so that I can swing myself out of bed. I'm still in my boxers. Sasha wolf-whistles loudly.

"Oh, shut up and go downstairs," I exhale, grabbing a pair of beige chinos and my white _Jack Daniel's_ shirt which are strewn across my floor from the course of the last week. I wriggle into the pants, patting down my thighs to smooth out the creases, as Connie rolls off my bed, informing Sasha that they should _totally_ _go check out what's in the refrigerator_.

After mentally praying for the strength not to throttle the _dastardly duo_, I trudge downstairs to find them both seated in the kitchen with my mom. I'm very much still grumpy-morning-Jean, and all I do it raise my eyebrows to my mom, as if to say: _so it was you who let these two lunatics into our house_.

"Good morning, darling," my mom carols, "You didn't tell me that Connie and Sasha were coming over today?"

_Funny that_, I muse.

"Sorry, mom. 'S not a problem, is it?" Please let it be a problem.

"We'll keep out of your way, Mrs K," Connie butts in, stupid-ass grin spread across his face. "You won't even notice we're here!"

_The whole fucking neighbourhood is gonna know you're here. _

I stride straight for the coffee machine as my mom takes the pot from its stand, and pours herself a mug. I grab a second from the rack, and hand it to her forcefully. Sweet, delicious caffeine, get in my body already.

"You should revise outside," my mom offers, handing me my coffee, before blowing the steam from the top of hers. "Jean's dad has covered the dining room table in his paperwork, so if you want to spread out your books, use the patio table."

I watch Sasha's head whip around to look out the kitchen window; she seems to bristle with excitement.

"Can we use the pool too?" she gleams, clasping her hands together in front of her chest. I roll my eyes. Actual revising is probably the last on these guys' short list of priorities. First: clean out all the food in the house. Second: make the most of the pool. Third: be sure to jump on poor, old Jean when he's just barely woken up. Fourth: just _maybe_ think about studying for these blessed finals we've got in like, three weeks' time.

"Sure you can, sweetheart," my mom smiles. She always had a soft spot for Sasha. My eyes narrow as I take a passive-aggressive sip of coffee. "Do you need to borrow a swimsuit?"

"Don't worry, we brought our own!" Sasha grins. She pings the strap of her blue-and-white, striped bikini that's just visible beneath the neckline of her shirt. Connie slaps his thighs in agreement, and I notice that his shorts are, indeed, actually swim trunks.

"Did you guys actually bring any work over, or are you just here to play hooky and mooch?" I say pointedly. They both offer me shit-eating grins.

* * *

I dump my pile of textbooks onto the patio table with a loud, _tired_ thump. Connie's unpacking his rucksack of his Biology and European History stuff, whilst Sasha is … stripping. And then running across the lawn. And then cannonballing into the pool.

I wince as the water sloshes up and over the sides, and Sasha surfaces, her bangs plastered to her face. She sweeps them back as she treads water.

"Come on, the water is a~ma~zing!" she calls across the yard. I can see the cogs in Connie's mind whirring as to whether he wants to run over there and join her, or actually try and not feel guilty for completely abandoning his work all together.

I sigh through my nose, and gesture to the pool.

"Go on then," I allowed, before adding, a little snarkily, "I'll just be sitting here. You know. Trying to pass these exams."

"I'll swim for like, _five_ minutes," he promises, "And then the consequences of World War Two. For sure."

He darts off across the grass, throwing his t shirt over his head and howling madly, before diving (re: belly flopping) into the water. The sound his stomach makes on the surface is a painful _slap_. Sasha just roars with laughter.

I pull up one of the chairs at the table, and settle into it, choosing to roll up my chinos to my knees for once – because it really _is_ fucking hot, but I for sure _won't_ be seen jumping into that pool with them. The parasol through the centre of the table offers some degree of shade, so I don't think I'm quite at risk of boiling alive on the concrete, but I still find myself fanning my face with an old exam paper as I open up the first textbook on the pile.

I work my way through some sample kinetics questions from my Chemistry notes, all the while listening to Connie and Sasha splashing around like drowning animals, and chewing absent-mindedly on the end of my pen.

_Five minutes_ was definitely always going to be a gross understatement. Connie and Sasha aren't even tempted out of the water until my mom presents a jug of her lemonade to the table. Suddenly, they're crowding around me again, all dripping wet and stinking of chlorine. I scoot my chair a little further away as I reach for a glass.

Sasha pulls her large sunglasses down over her face as she slips into the chair opposite me, with Connie next to her.

"So what are we leaning today, mister grumpy-pants?" she asks innocently. I quirk an eyebrow, and stare at her incredulously.

"I don't know what _you're_ learning, since we don't actually do any of the same classes, Sash," I reply curtly. "Connie and I are gonna do some European History." I glance at Connie, and he nods, deciding it obviously safer to side with me in this case (the alternative being I throttle him). We're going to revise those post-war treaties, even if I have to _tie_ him to that chair. I reckon he recognises that fact in my expression.

"Oh, well then I could test you!" Sasha chirps gleefully. "I kinda left all my books at home."

So she really did only come 'round to swim.

I exhale slowly, and admit defeat, pushing my notes across the table to her. She picks them up, leaving damp fingerprints all over the pages, as she scans the text. She better not smudge the ink.

By some hefty miracle, we actually manage a good little cramming session, despite the interruption that my mom poses with a tray of triangle-cut sandwiches, which distracts Sasha for the few minutes it takes for her to shove them all into her mouth at once.

"Oh my god, these are the best," she mumbles over a full mouthful, trying to wash it all down with an inelegant gulp of lemonade. "I forgot how much I like coming over to your house."

"I'm glad you appreciate my company _so_ much," I remark back, tapping my pencil on the table top and I run my eyes over the words I've just written. At the edge of my field of view, I notice movement in the far corner of the yard; the back gate swings open, and is caught by the hedge as someone walks in.

Marco.

My first thought is, of course: _oh, it's Marco_! My second thought is: _oh God, he's going to have to meet the little devils_.

Sasha notices how my line of sight disappears over her shoulder, and so twists around in her chair as Marco dumps his equipment pool-side. She lowers her sunglasses from the bridge of her nose.

"_Who_ is that?" she whistles, teasingly.

"Uhm, _not_ the guy who happens to be your boyfriend," I shoot back; Sasha turns back around, and laughs at the expression which has appeared on Connie's face. She pets him affectionately on the arm, and he rolls his eyes.

"But check out his _arms_," she adds cheekily. _Looks like you've got competition, mom._ "What? Just because I'm not ordering doesn't mean I can't appreciate what's on the menu now and again!"

I cup my forehead in my palm and glare down at the wooden grain of the table, reflecting on the cringe-value of what she just said, as well as awkwardly avoiding having to watch the sickening little kisses that Sasha's currently peppering Connie's face with in apology.

I tilt my head slightly, so that I can see Marco. _Please, you don't want to come over here. Just don't. For your own good. For _my _own good. _

Yeah, so we don't quite have the whole telepathy thing down yet. Once he's set down his equipment, and kicked off his shoes, he strides over to the table, a brilliant smile spread across his freckled face.

"Good afternoon!" he greets with usual cheer, as I slink down further into my seat. I really wish I had sunglass to hide my face right about now. He instantly picks up on my discomfort. "Jean?"

"… Hey," I mumble; Marco tilts his head in concern. I sure hope he's ready.

"Oh!" Sasha then exclaims, and I feel a shudder of fear ripple down my spine. Please, please, _please_ don't say something weird, Sash. I actually don't want to scare this guy away forever, okay? "You're the guy who was in Jean's snap chat the other day!"

Oh God. Of all the things you could've said, Sasha. Way to make me seem like a creep taking photos of the guy when he wasn't looking. Which is, I guess, _technically_ what happened, but that's not the point! It wasn't creepy!

"Jean's snap chat?" Marco repeats to himself questioningly, glancing down at me again. I deliberately _don't_ meet his eyes. "What's this?"

Please don't be smiling, _please don't be smiling._ I take a peek. He's smiling. Idiot.

"Oh yeah," Sasha continues, moving her sunglass to rest on the top of her head. She leans back in the chair, and draws one leg up to her chest, resting her palms on her knee. Connie is watching the scene in a mix of earnestness and I-better-make-sure-there's-no-flirting-going-down-here. "Jean was being laaaame."

"I was not being lame!" I retort, "You were being lame…"

I straighten up a bit in my seat (because I probably would've fallen off the chair if I'd sunk any lower, let's be real here), and become aware of Marco's hand curled over the top of my recliner. I don't lean back.

"Marco," I offer begrudgingly, "This is Sasha. And that's Connie. My _lame_-ass friends."

Sasha opens her mouth to rebuke my choice of words, but Marco politely interrupts.

"Nice to meet you guys," he smiles pleasantly. "Jean talks about you a lot."

_Liar! I do not!_

Sasha begins squawking to Connie about… well, I don't exactly listen, because I finally look Marco in the eyes; if I could describe someone as literally sparkling, that'd be him. I elbow him gruffly in the waist – he is literally _solid_ beneath his blue polo shirt.

"Look what you've done," I mutter under my breath, but I reckon he hears me – he laughs. He leans a little closer to my chair. There's the smell of his laundry detergent again. Camomile. I add sarcastically, "God, they might even think I _like_ them, instead of just _tolerate_ them."

"I heard that," Sasha says, folding her arms over her chest, putting on a ridiculous looking pout. I roll my eyes dramatically.

Thankfully, Marco dismisses himself to start cleaning the pool; I watch him retreat over to the water's edge, my eyes scanning his broad shoulders, before burying my head in my revision notes. I release a pent-up sigh between my lips.

I scan the words on the page – a few lines at least – before I realise that Connie and Sasha are staring at me, and haven't moved.

"What was that?" Sasha asks, plainly. She leans forward in interest, resting her cheek in her palm. Her smirk is pure evil.

"What was what?" I reply suspiciously.

"_That_."

"What's _that_?"

My face resorts to its usual scowl, completely at a loss of what she's trying to say. Sasha exchanges a look with Connie – they're obviously on a wavelength which I'm not on, because Connie nods affirmingly.

We sit in silence for a few moments, and just when I think they've dropped the subject, and am about to return to the books, Sasha pipes up again. And I really wish she hadn't.

"Well, _he's_ kinda cute," she says.

I can't help the splutter that literally falls out of my mouth. I'm sorry? _What_ was that exactly?

My eyes pass to Connie in that instant, but he doesn't even seem fazed. He just shrugs in agreement with his girlfriend. What the fuck am I missing here?

"Why haven't you introduced us to him before, Jean?" she smiles. Oh God – it's that Sasha smile, the smile that just screams: _I'm about to cause trouble for you, Jean_. "Keeping him all to yourself, were you?"

I am literally at a loss for words, opening and closing my mouth like a fish.

"He's… he's the _pool boy_," is the extent of what I eventually come up with. _And also my friend, and actually I've known him for only like… four weeks, and also yes, I guess he's got a great smile and stuff, but… that's not the point! _

What are these two losers trying to get at? I let out a low, feeble groan.

"Please can you not," I say weakly. "He's my friend. I'd like it if, _you know_, you guys aren't so annoying that he never comes back again, alright?"

Connie reaches across the table and pats me on the forearm, reassuringly. He seems sincere. Sort of.

"It's alright, man. We're not jealous. Well, I'm not. Sasha might be." He looks over at Sasha, and grins cheesily. "I understand if you want to ditch us for your man-toy."

_What. The. Fuck._

It's about now that I wish for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. That would be great right about now.

Connie and Sasha both burst out laughing at my evident queasiness.

"We're only messing with you, man!" Connie bellows, rocking back in the chair. "Your face is a picture!"

I grumble a few very, _very_ strong lines of swear words under my breath, trying to block out all sounds of their chuckling, and focus solely on my notes. _Paris peace treaties_, right. Focus.

Eventually, Connie and Sasha return to the books themselves, with Sasha rattling through some Biology flashcards and quick-fire questions. With them distracted, I seize a glance in Marco's direction – he's at the deep end, sifting through the crystal-clear water with his net, seemingly whistling to himself. He doesn't seem to notice that I'm looking.

So maybe I steal a few more glances in his direction after that – kinda thankful that he's not paying the two troublemakers any more heed than they deserve. I applaud myself on my subtlety of not being noticed.

But I also find myself being mildly annoyed that I shouldn't have to _not be noticed_. Because Saturdays are Marco days, and I guess I can admit that I actually like having the chance to talk to the guy, without the constant nuisance that comes in the form of two idiots. Of course they had to pick today to drop in unannounced.

Connie slams his revision cards down on the table with a jolt that makes me jump in my seat.

"I've had enough!" he proclaims, "Race you to the pool, Sash!"

I raise one hand to stop them – because, _hey, hang on you two numbskulls, Marco's actually trying to clean—_

They're already tearing across the grass before I even have chance to say one word. Well, shit.

There's a loud holler of "cannonball!", accompanied by two, massive _splooshes_. I hear Marco's quiet cry of surprise, and then a whole lot of laughter and splashing about. I squeeze my eyes shut briefly, pinching the bridge of my nose, before getting to my feet.

With my hands deep in my pockets, I slink across to as close-as-I-dare-to-be to the pool side. I scuff my bare feet in the grass, as Sasha calls up to me.

"Come on, grumpy pants! Jump in!"

"I'm still wearing my clothes, moron," I reply, and then add, "Can't you guys see that Marco's trying to, you know, _work_ here. Kinda like we should be doing!"

"It's alright, Jean," Marco smiles, leaning on his net, on the other side of the water to me. His eyes flit between the mayhem in the water, and me, awkwardly standing on the bank. Ultimately, his gaze fixes on me. "I was basically done."

"See!" Sasha cries, attempting to splash me with pool water. I take a step back just in time, and it only gets my feet. "Spoil sport!"

I fold my arms and watch on – kinda disdainfully – as Connie attempts to perform a handstand, just without much success, and Sasha tries to emulate it. All the legs wildly flailing in the air makes Marco chuckle. Our eyes meet. I mentally ask him why on earth he's humouring them. The telepathy thing is still not working.

A couple, spaced-out moments later, and I realise that Marco is no longer standing opposite me anymore – he's deconstructing his net, and hauling his equipment up into his arms. It's already that time, huh?

"Lemme help you with that," I offer, gesturing to the two buckets of some chemical or another he's trying to hold in one hand. He smiles gratefully; it lights up in his dark eyes.

I don't think Connie and Sasha even notice as we slip (re: stagger – because this pool stuff is actually fucking heavy) out of the back gate, and onto the street that runs behind my house. Marco's van is a typical Vauxhall Combo that's probably seen better days; it's white, although the tires are covered in a film of dust. Along the side of it, it reads: _Trost Pool Servicing & Repair_ in a dynamic, blue, water-motif.

Balancing his equipment on his knee, he clicks the _unlock_ button on his key ring, and heaves the sliding door open.

"Just throw all this in there?" I ask, as he steps aside to allow me to get rid of my heavy armful first. Marco nods, and I do as I'm told, trying not to let the two buckets in my grasp tip over. As we switch places, to allow Marco to organise the inside of his van, I find myself rubbing the back of my neck awkwardly.

"I'm sorry, by the way," I offer apologetically. Marco pauses, and looks back over his shoulder at me, the skin between his eyebrows creased.

"What for?" he asks innocently, using the side of the van to pull himself upright. He slides the door shut, trying the handle to make sure the latch has caught. And then he faces me, looking pretty perplexed.

"Uh, for them?" I shrug, gesturing with my thumb back into the yard, where splashing and laughing can still be heard. "They're… kinda intense. I'm sorry if they, you know, were a pain. I didn't even know they were gonna be here today…"

"They're your friends, aren't they?" he laughs brightly, to my surprise. His hands rest on his hips, almost as if he's about to scold me or something. "You shouldn't need to apologise for them, Jean."

"Yeah, but—" I start, but then quickly clamp my mouth shut under Marco's gaze. _Yeah but, I bet you haven't met people like Connie or Sasha before_, is what I was going to say.

"No 'buts'," Marco corrects, "They look like they're a lot of fun." He opens the driver's door, and climbs in behind the steering wheel. I move to lean my forearm against the roof of the cabin, looking down on him as he straps himself in.

"_Fun_," I repeat with an extended sigh, "Or an intense rollercoaster of chaos. Either works."

Marco chuckles lightly, and looks up at me. His smile tugs out a reluctant one of my own onto my lips. It feels foreign after having been in a bit of a grump since my rude awakening this morning. But we really are smiling at each other like dorks here.

"Go have fun, Jean," he breathes. I smirk, and take a few steps back, as he closes the van's door. As the exhaust revs, he winds down the window, and pokes his head out, to offer one last word. "I'll see you Wednesday, alright?"

"Yeah. Wednesday."

* * *

Connie and Sasha manage to stick around until after dinner, no thanks to my mom taking pity on them, and Sasha being as appreciative of any form of cooking as ever. When they eventually leave, gone eight, all I can do is sink down into the cushions of the couch with a deflated huff.

"What's wrong, darling?" my mom asks, as she floats into the living room, clutching a glass of wine in her manicured fingers, and perches next to me. "Are you feeling okay?" She reaches out a hand to press to my forehead, but I feebly bat it away.

"Just tired," I say. Understatement. Fucking _exhausted_. "Could probably sleep for at least five years right about now."

She smiles kindly (or, she smiles as much as her plastic surgery allows, and I _reckon_ that it's kindness), and sips her wine.

"It's lovely to see Sasha and Connie again," she hums. I let my eyes fall closed, and don't attempt to try to open them. "I've always liked them."

"Maybe that's because you've always wanted to set me up with Sasha," I mumble sarcastically. Mom scoffs, and playfully hits me on the bicep.

"I never," she says, feigning shock in her voice. I smirk, but keep my eyes closed. "… But I wouldn't have minded. You know. You dating Sasha."

"Too bad, mom. She's seeing Connie now." As an afterthought, and more as a memo to self, I add a gentle: "_Finally_."

"Oh, well then," she says, and I crack open one eye to note her expression. "That is too bad." She takes another mouthful of wine, and looks like she's pondering something. "I guess I'll have to find someone else to set you up with then, Jean." I snort loudly at her jibe, and lean my head back into the cushions.

"Gee, thanks, mom."

* * *

The talk about my non-existent love life seems to be prime conversation for the rest of that weekend.

At dinner on Sunday (aka the one dinner a week that my dad attempts to attend), my mom raises the topic of Connie and Sasha's relationship.

"Huh? I thought Jean was dating the Braus' daughter?" my dad inquires, a forkful of potato and salad raised halfway to his gob.

"Nooo," my mom croons, "I _wanted_ him to date her, but it turns out she only ever had eyes for Connie, bless him. Or at least, so Jean tells me."

I listen to all this whilst poking my food around my plate in frustration. They talk about it like I'm not even in the room. And let's not even get started on how much my dad _actually_ knows about me when it's not school or work related.

"Shame that," my dad says – he gestures crudely at me with his cutlery. "Good family, the Braus'. They've got a lot of money. And good social standing. I was thinking about going into business with Mr. Braus – whatever his name is – the stocks in industrialised agriculture are looking promising this quarter."

I'm sure I've heard this all before. Multiple times.

I think my mom senses my displeasure at this lecture. She attempts to steer the conversation elsewhere, but doesn't really take it very far.

"Didn't you mention you had some new interns at the office, dear?" she asks my dad. "Any young ladies that you might be able to introduce Jean to?"

I almost choke on a mouthful of my dinner, and have to hastily flush it down with a couple generous gulps of water.

"Hmm, sure, there are couple new girls," my dad agrees. I stare at him intently, hoping to see a slip up in his façade. I wonder how many of those "new girls" he's already had bent over his office desk.

"No thanks," I say curtly, pushing my plate away from me in the same instant. "Mom, I'm not hungry anymore. Mind if I go study?"

I don't really wait for an answer, and leave the table as quickly as I physically can, feeling my dad's scorn on my back all the while. Fuck that.

* * *

To name just one thing that I really don't like about Professor Dok's lectures would probably be a difficult thing to do. To start with, it's six hours a week of pretentious, philosophical bullshit that I really shoulda seen coming when I first picked it as my last elective back in the fall.

Second of all, they've still got those chairs from like, the nineteen-sixties; the ones made of grey plastic so fucking hard that you lose all feeling in your butt after the first ten minutes, and that's only if the chair hasn't just snapped shut on you the moment you sat down. I've seen that happen a couple times, okay.

Third thing is that Professor Dok doesn't seem to actually care when the bell rings. If he's still talking, you ain't moving an inch from your seat, not until he's finished. He has zero empathy for the fact that of us have places to be, cafeteria tables to hog, scolding hot coffee to choke on.

On a Tuesday, I have Philosophy right before lunch, so this is a thing that tends to happen quite a lot. This Tuesday is no exception – I'm not out until five minutes _after_ the bell.

Connie's out of there like a lightning bolt; he and Sasha have finally realised that yes, those finals are actually real close, and they've got to finish putting their final piece together for Theatre – so they've been running off to practice at every available opportunity.

I trudge down the main corridor of the humanities building craving a cigarette, if only for something to do with my hands or my mouth. I'm already so used to Connie and Sasha just being there, on either side of me, spewing nonsense twenty-four-seven. Keeps me on my toes.

I check my phone; for once, no new messages. When I look up, I frown, and then drop my gaze back down immediately.

Eren and co. up ahead.

They're talking in a tight group, but I don't dawdle to look at their faces. The floor is real interesting. Yep. What lovely scuffed tiles these are.

It's when I'm about five or six paces past them, that Eren suddenly raises his voice – not shouting, but in a way that suggests that he wants someone to hear what he's saying. Me.

"… but isn't it so weird for someone to freak out like that? Like, who is even scared of something so stupid?"

I twist my neck to look over my shoulder 'cause I just can't help it. I meet Eren's blue-green stare through the gap between Ymir and Historia, who are also looking back at me too. Armin's got his mouth pursed, Ymir's shooting me a typical scowl, and Mikasa... well, she's the only one not looking this way. From her posture, I just guess she's kind of irked. Historia looks… troubled? What with the way her eyebrows are pulled up in the middle, and her mouth very round, and very small.

Is that supposed to be pity? Please. I don't need that shit.

I'm perfectly happy with my four friends, thank you very much. (_Three, Jean. Your mom doesn't count_.)

Isn't this better than it was? I don't want to go back to the way it was before. I'd rather suffer through the looks and the remarks than go back to just how fucking lonely it was before Connie decided to buck the trend. Right? _Right._ There's a weight in my chest that's pulling me right down, twisting itself into every conceivable gap between my ribs. _Hurts_.

I don't think Eren does this stuff to be malicious. He's just got a one-track mind, and likes doing things for the sake of it. For a reaction, I guess.

I swallow the tight lump in my throat, and steel my glare on the floor once more. No reaction. _No reaction_.

… I think this counts as a reaction. Time to find a quiet place to have that cigarette.

* * *

"Can I see what you're drawing?"

"No. Top secret."

It's Wednesday. I'm perched on the steps of the pool shed, sketchbook in hand, pencil in the other, trying to shield my scribbles from prying eyes and a freckled face.

Marco tries to peer over the barricade of my arms and sneak a peek, but I curl in on myself more, hastily hatching rough lines onto the paper.

"Not even a little preview?" he begs through a laugh. He rocks back on his heels, leaning on the pool net; I quirk an eyebrow, unamused.

"Not even a little preview," I repeat back at him, pursing my lips and shaking my head.

It's not like what I'm even doing is even remotely good. It's messy, and I just can't seem to get the anatomy right. But I just couldn't draw it from memory. Marco, that is, of course. I could get the freckles down, sure – that little band of four that stretches across his nose – and I'm pretty good at getting his hair right, with the way the black strands hang loosely over his forehead, and his eyes too, but beyond that, I'm a bit lost.

I try to keep my glances in his direction as secretive as possible, so as to not give away the fact that _yes, I'm drawing you from life, and I promise that's not at all creepy, okay?_ I furrow my brow, and try to correct the way I've drawn his feet – I'm pretty crap at feet, not going to lie.

"You know you stick your tongue out when you concentrate?" Marco chuckles; I glare up at him in horror.

"I do not!"

"You definitely do!"

I feel my face going red with embarrassment, and chew on the already teeth-marked end of my pencil.

"S-shut up," I mutter, "Don't you have a pool to clean or something?" I've started to notice that when Marco smirks, rather than smile, he has a tendency to look positively wicked. Like, on a Sasha or Connie level of mischievousness.

He swings the pool net around in my direction, and moves to jab me with it – I recoil backwards, clumsily falling onto my back to escape the drips of water from landing on me or my sketch book.

"Watch where you're swinging that thing, man!" I exclaim, tossing my sketchbook to the side, out of harm's way. I grab the end of the net and give it a sharp tug, to prove my point.

Apparently, _too_ sharp a tug.

Marco, having been on the edge of the pool as it was, loses his balance. And falls in.

It takes a moment to process what just happened.

…

"Shit!"

I stumble forward on my hands and knees, fingers clamped over the edge of the pool as Marco surfaces with a great deal of spluttering. The water is not too deep, barely coming up past his armpits as he stands. His polo shirt, soaked, clings to every muscle in his shoulders and upper arms, as he sweeps a hand through his hair, slicking it back against his head. Waves lap against the shallow end, and against my fingers – I withdraw my grasp when I see that yes, _he's not dead_, and sit back on my calves.

"Wow," he coughs amidst a grin, spitting out a mouthful of chlorinated water. "I guess I was asking for that!"

"Shit, I'm sorry!" I exclaim, although I can feel a smug grin appearing on my face. I try my best to continue to feign concern, but… yeah, it doesn't really work. "You okay?"

"Just a little damp," he laughs, pinging his shirt against his chest. Drenched. And there's that glimpse of wickedness across his eyes again. "You not fancy a dip, Jean?"

"Uh, that'll be a no!" I snort, but shuffle away from the pool side on my butt none the less. Marco begins wading towards the shallow end, his movements heavy and slow with the weight of the water in his clothes. It's not quite a _Honey Ryder _type exit, I'll be honest. He climbs the steps, and stands on the bank leaking enough water to probably fill a couple bathtubs.

He raises his eyebrows, as he rings out his shirt in his fists, the once-cornflower-blue fabric squelching in his grasp. I shuffle away a little more.

"You don't think you could, uh… fetch my towel from my van, could you?" He looks down at his shorts, equally _not_ the colour they once were when dry. The water runs down his freckled legs in a whole bunch of little rivers. He sweeps back his hair bashfully, as it's fallen back over his face again.

"Sure," I chuckle to myself, hauling myself to my feet, and making sure to give him a hell of a wide birth so that I don't end up pushed in the pool myself.

He's left his van unlocked, and sure enough, as I peer into the cab, there's a fluffy, white towel slung over the head rest of the passenger's seat. It's embroidered with his name in the way that your mom would do to label your stuff back in elementary school.

With the towel flopped over my arm, I let myself back in through the gate, but freeze mid step. Here's what I'm greeted with:

Shirtless.

Short-less.

Very, _very_ wet, _Superman_ boxers.

I swallow the massive lump that's formed in my throat. And, _oh God_. My jeans feel unusually tight. There it is. The _most_ awkward of awkward boners.

No, no, _no_, this is not happening. Not happening. Not here. Not now. Think of the old bat you had for seventh grade English. In her underwear. Do it.

_Ohbutlookatthewayhisfreckleskindapoolinthesmallofhisback. _I hear that in Sasha's voice in my mind.

Nope. Do not. I mean, he's attractive, right? I'm not going to lie. There's a reason my mom is so obsessed with him. But I like girls. _I like Mikasa_.

I do most certainly not like freckled backs, and rock solid abs, and…

_Situational boner, Jean. These things happen. Don't freak out. Don't freak out._

I pull my shirt as far down over my hips as it'll go, and silently thank the fact that I chose to put on a pretty restricting pair of jeans as it was this morning.

I cough excessively loudly – Marco whips 'round to face me, his cheeks a little flushed. I lob the towel at him with all my might.

"Put some clothes on!" I say sharply, averting my gaze to my feet as he wraps the towel around his hips; it hangs low on the bones of his pelvis.

"S-sorry!" he replies back, sounding just as flustered. "Y-you said your mom wasn't in, right?"

Oh God. Mom would have a field day if she saw this.

"No, she's not," I mumble, watching the relief flood Marco's face from the corner of my eye. "Look, man, we've got a… uh, we've got a dryer in the house, if you know, you want to…?"

_Smooth, Jean. So smooth. You're all over the fucking place. _

"Please!"

I walk-run into the house, making sure to keep my shirt pulled down in front of my crotch to hide the entirely unnecessary stiff one in my pants. Marco does his best to keep up, clutching the towel around his waist with one hand, and his soaking wet clothes in the other.

I lead him into the utility room that leads off the kitchen, and point at the tumble dryer with a rigid arm. Marco ducks his head, and probably noticing how intense my laser-stare is right now, flings his clothes into the barrel without a word. I choose a quick cycle, spinning the dial 'round to the first marker.

"Are you alright, Jean?" he then goes and fucking says. I blanch. "Y-you look a bit pale?"

"Just peachy," I say through gritted teeth. I look for an exit of some sort. "Uh, just excuse me for a sec, I'll be right back."

I make a hasty get away to the safety of the bathroom, without looking back at Marco. Once I've triple checked that I've locked the door, I inhale as deeply as I can, and breathe out slowly. He was right, I think, checking myself out in the mirror. I look hella pale.

I grip the sides of the sink with both hands, and stare down at the plughole. The thought crosses my mind that I should just palm myself off, and be done with it. I've masturbated to the thought of some of my friend's moms before. Even a teacher or two. This is just like that. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, after all.

_But, Jean, that most definitely does not mean jacking off to your pool boy in his tighty-whities whilst he's basically on the other side of the door_. That is not cool.

I run my thumb over the cool, metal button of my jeans, none the less.

_No._

I bite down on my lower lip, and try to imagine my wrinkly seventh grade teacher again. That does the trick. There's no way in hell I can stay hard with that picture in my head.

I run the faucet as cold as it'll go, and splash water over my face.

It's at least ten minutes before I emerge from the bathroom, sure of the fact that my hard-on is long gone, and this is never, _ever_ going to be an experience I wish to repeat again. Not going to ruin this friendship thing _that way_.

Marco's propped up on a bar stool in the kitchen, his hair still dripping onto his shoulders and back. He perks up when I trudge in, my gaze steeled.

"I'm fine," I say, before he can ask me anything about how I feel. "Are you clothes dry yet?"

"Uh, I haven't checked…?"

I lead the way back into the utility room, just as the light on the dryer flashes green, indicating the end of the cycle. I pull the round door open, and reach into grab his clothes – warm and dry.

"Here," I say, chucking the bundle in his direction. He catches them awkwardly, fumbling as to not drop his towel.

I turn my back as he shrugs on his shirt and shorts, staring pointedly at the tiles on the floor, counting how many are in the room, before he says, in a small voice:

"I hope you realise I am definitely going to get you back for this."

I roll my tongue in my cheek, and peer back over my shoulder with a smirk I just can't help.

"Try me."

* * *

Once I've schooled myself about not having any more awkward boners ever again in Marco's presence, I spend the rest of the day avoiding being too close to the pool (in fear that, despite his good nature, Marco might actually just act upon that revenge he threatened), and neglecting my sketchbook. I don't think I'm up to objectively looking at his body in order to draw. I can admit that much to myself.

I'm not sure if Marco recognises the change in atmosphere or not, but he tries to keep conversation light hearted as he goes about his routine.

He tells me about the dog he had when he was younger; about the time, when he was around ten, that said dog decided it wanted to pull them both into the river. He explains dutifully how it wasn't really a river, more of a very muddy swamp, and that his mom definitely wasn't happy when he got back from _that_ walk.

He asks me if I've had any pets – I mention that my mom has a fear of anything bigger than approximately a guinea pig, and that she doesn't want anything that might scratch up the furniture. I also add in the fact that I have just about enough of the Jack Russell who lives next door, which has a tendency to wake me up at sunrise more often that I'd like. And I'd like that to be never.

I begin to pick up on some of his quirks that aren't his nervous ones (like the neck scratching thing, or the lip biting) – when he laughs, and by that I mean, really laughs, and not just some lame polite chuckle, he throws his head right back into it. When he talks about things from his past, he likes to rub one strand of his hair between his thumb and forefinger. When he's listening to my nonsense, his eyebrows tend to quirk up in the middle. How he toys with the hem of his shirt absent-mindedly. How he has a tendency to use my name in conversation, even when it's just the two of us talking.

It's nice to be able to talk like this, boners and pushing people in the pool aside, because it's a pretty crazy feeling to have someone actually laugh at what you're saying, and not because you're making a fool of yourself. Marco's like that. I think he genuinely finds me funny.

"… and all that was because he went and stuffed a jelly bean up his nose," I say, finishing the dramatic retelling of the time Connie and I took a memorable trip to A&E, following an unfortunate, candy related episode of "do it for the Vine". It's not something I'm ever willing to let Connie live down, that's for sure.

"Oh my God, that is… that's unbelievable," Marco snickers, eating up my words. "And how old were you?"

"Seventeen," I grin, running my tongue over my teeth. "And tell me about it. It was a day to go down in history, believe me."

* * *

That Saturday continues much the same; I take my revision outside, and chat to Marco amidst Chemistry problems, about stupid things. He apparently enjoys the tales of my lame-ass friends, because he's always posing questions, and asking "and then what?" to everything I say. So I indulge him. But it's not like I wouldn't have anyway. There's like… an earnestness in his face that just doesn't let me shut up.

The thing about Marco is he's not like Connie. He's the sort of person you kinda want to work hard for, to be their best friend. Not really someone you'd just get lumbered with after far too many mud-fights when you were five (not that I resent my friendship with Connie in any way… just, it sits on the side of mentally exhausting most of the time). I suppose you could say I'm not… averse to the feeling of impressing the guy. Makes me feel good when he acknowledges something I confide in him, with one of those freckled-Jesus smiles.

Marco doesn't really talk about any of _his_ friends; I mean, I know he's in with Bert, and that lot, or at least was, back when he still did uni. And he mentions some guys at his work – especially one with a serious cleaning fetish that really goes beyond just sweeping up leaves – from time to time. But no-one like Connie and Sasha are to me.

"What do you do for fun?" I ask him – the forwardness of my question causes him to do the eyebrow thing, and blink slowly. "Like, your free time and stuff?"

"What, are you suggesting that I don't live and breathe pool cleaning?" he chuckles, but I press my gaze. He then shrugs. "I don't really have much time to spare right now. I guess… I spend most of what I have with my family."

I pull a face that hopefully expresses how lame I think that is (despite the fact that yes, I did just spend the last twelve months up until three weeks ago hanging out primarily with my mom. But ssh.).

"I play games and stuff with my sister, I suppose? Does that count?"

I scoff at the thought of Marco playing board games as a pastime. Could you even get any more domestic? Probably not. This _is_ Marco after all.

"Sister, huh?" I grin. First time he's really mentioned his family, and not just in passing. "Is she hot?"

"She's _nine_, Jean."

I exhale sharply through my nose, and sheepishly run a hand through my mop of hair.

"Aaaalrighty then. That'll be a no."

At that moment, a snap chat arrives on my phone. The jingle it lights up my screen with is the opening _whoooooo are you? _from The Who song of the same name.

It's from Connie, and the pic is of his Philosophy notes, covered in a spread of different coloured jelly beans. The caption reads: _how many of these do u think i can shove in my mouth at once ?_

"Who's it from?" Marco queries, picking up on my amused smirk. He takes a step closer to me, and tries to lean over me to see the screen.

"Idiot number-one," I tell him, holding up the screen cap I took of the photo before its five-second time limit was up. Marco cocks an eyebrow.

"Are you sure that's going to go well for him, after what you said happened _the last time_?" he observes. I shake my head, snap a selfie of myself scowling, and type out a reply: _i can see ur revision is going well lmao_

"Nope," I say, "Just you wait, man. Give it half an hour, and he'll be telling me he's eaten too many and's gonna puke."

I get a reply back pretty quickly. This time, it's of Connie himself, his mouth stuffed full of the multi-coloured candies. The text says: _nope 2 weeks to go and im givin up im gonna become a stripper !_

"He says he's decided to become a stripper," I murmur, "Sounds like not too bad an idea. I might just join him on that." I stare down at the textbook in my lap – specifically the page I haven't moved from for some while.

"Your parents would appreciate that career choice, I'm sure," Marco hums, hauling the skimmer out of the pool, and propping it beside the steps of the shed where I'm sitting.

"Probably'd appreciate it more than some of the things I'm considering."

Marco looks up at me at that, and cocks his head to the side. That's another habit of his that I add to my mental list.

"So you _are_ considering an art major?" he assumes, and I give a noncommittal nod. His tone becomes a bit more serious. "Maybe you should give your parents a chance, Jean. You could show them what you can do."

It's not like I haven't considered showing my parents my sketchbooks before. I'm even about seventy-percent sure that my mom would actually like some of my drawings. But…

"Pfft, you haven't met my dad, man. He's a stickler for… well, I'd say the rules, but that for sure isn't fucking true. Maybe: a stickler for me being the way he wants me to be. He'd go ballistic if I ever mentioned not wanting to go to work for him at his company."

Plus who'd really accept me onto an art course based on some kinda stalkerish line-drawings of the one same girl and the pool boy? And that's if I'd even make it that far into the application, without being throttled by one, or both of my parents for "throwing my future away" or some shit like that. I shake my head, and Marco appears mildly frustrated at that.

"It's not their future to decide," he murmurs quietly, focused on the water lapping against the blue-mosaic edge of the pool. "You do this, you do. Take a part the things that I can see you really like. Jean, you're good at art. _So_ good. Please talk to them about it."

I snort through my nose, and lean back on the steps, lacing my fingers on top of my head.

"Woah there Socrates," I say, causing Marco to roll his eyes, his cheeks flushing. His words do resonate a little deeper than my sarcastic response lets on, though. It's that same feeling as when he praised the drawings he saw in my room that one time. Pride, maybe? Recognition for a good job? The thought that, you know, someone actually cares about me in a way other than what grade I got in my last exam, or whether or not I'm wearing brand clothing.

"I'm serious, Jean," Marco stresses, drawing me out of my thoughts. "You need to do what _you_ really want to. I have first-hand experience that it sucks having to settle for something you… have no passion for." His voice becomes a lot quieter with those last few words, and his expression is gloomy, mixed with a little something else, which I can't really place.

My normal reaction for situations like this is to make a funny comment. So I do. I'm not great at feelings-shit any other way.

"Ah, but you wouldn't have met _me_ if you didn't take up pool cleaning," I grin, "Your life wouldn't be the same, man. Just think how depressed you would be without the amazing, charming, _witty_ Jean Kirschtein in your life."

"Just think how depressed I would be _without_ your mom hitting on me, you mean?" he shoots right back, cheekily. But I'm not too blind to realise that he's forcing the smile on his lips, or notice the way his jaw seems to clench. His eyes still seem pretty dark (and I'm not just talking about their colour).

Marco just doesn't quite seem the same after that – he only half-laughs at my shitty jokes, and stares off into the middle distance a lot, as if he's contemplating something pretty serious in his head. I try to retrace back over my words, to see if anything I said was particularly offensive, but I draw a blank.

I can't imagine what it must've been like for him to have to give up on his dream for the future – especially if, like he said, it was because of some "family issues". Not that I have the slightest clue what that entails. I guess you could even call what I have "family issues". But Marco doesn't bring it up. So I don't try to go there.

When it's time for him to leave, I pay him, and help him to his van with his stuff again, informing him that'll I'll see him Wednesday. That tugs a little more of a genuine smile onto his freckled face, and he even waves at me through his open window as he pulls away from the curb.

* * *

On Sunday morning, I fully expect to be granted my much-deserved lie-in 'till at least midday. Of course, that doesn't happen. Sometimes I really wonder what sort of hand I must've been given from the pot of luck.

It's around nine when, somewhere between dosing and comatose, I become vaguely aware of barking. It's that sort of thing when whatever's going on around you just becomes part of your dream – a part of your dream that nibbles away at you because you know it's not _quite_ right – but you keep on sleeping anyway.

I'm not entirely sure what I'm dreaming of, but I know it involves Connie, and Sasha, and Eren's there too – and then when he opens his mouth, instead of words, he just barks? That sort of shit is apparently normal in the Jean dream world; I don't stir.

It's when the barking stops and is replaced by loud splashing and whining that I'm actually drawn out of sleep. My eyes flicker open hazily, and I stare up at my white-washed ceiling under heavy eyelids for some time, the sploshing sound of water in my ears, but not really registering.

I flip over onto my side, facing the wall, and draw my sheets up around my waist a bit more (I have a habit of kicking them away when unconscious) – and then the barking starts up again.

_Oh for fuck's sake_, I groan inwardly, grabbing my pillow, and smothering the side of head with it. _Why the fuck does that fucking cat need to terrorise that dumb dog so often?_

But the barking is still really loud. Too loud. Too loud to be coming from next door. It's almost as if…

… Fuck.

I fling myself out of bed, and clamour towards the window that overlooks the back yard. _The little shit is in the pool._

I bang loudly on the window pane with my fist, and yell something pretty obscene at the Jack Russell – but all it does it briefly glance up at me, and then continue paddling around in the shallows, its tail bobbing along above the water line.

I hurtle down the stairs still in my boxers, firmly in the mind that I'm going to fucking _skin_ that dog when I catch it.

The rest of the house is deserted – typical.

Throwing open the back door, I stop in my tracks as the scrawny little mutt climbs the pool steps, and begins to shake its wet coat, splattering the side with a minor tornado of droplets. It seems to look over its shoulder at me, and I swear it's telling me: _well what'ya gonna do about this then? Come at me bro!_

I roll up my imaginary sleeves, and take another few fuming strides forward on my war path, when it does the unspeakable. It cocks its leg.

I glare razor-sharp daggers at it with all my might, and it stares right back.

"Don't you _fucking dare_ whizz in that pool, you little fuck," I growl through clenched teeth.

So of course it fucking whizzes.

I rush at the little shit then, intending the fucking throttle it, and it bolts back through the hedge between our yard and the neighbour's, howling with glee. (It _is_ glee, I tell you! It's fucking proud of itself!)

I scramble in the hedge row nonetheless, practically growling like a dog myself, but my hands come up with no scrawny mutt in their grasp. I exhale sharply, and right myself, turning half towards the pool where the cloud of piss is dissipating into the water.

So. _Gross_.

Yeah, I know I'm a Chemistry student. And yeah, I _know_ chlorine has disinfectant properties and is used in swimming pools for _exactly_ this reason. But still.

I stride purposefully back into the kitchen, still breathing furiously through my nose, and start rattling around in the drawers on the island counter, searching for what I hope my mom had sense enough to leave there. No luck. With my hands on my hips, I glare around the kitchen, my eyes coming to rest on the door of the refrigerator.

_Aha!_

Pinned below the photo of Connie, Sasha and I from our road trip two summers ago, is a white rectangle of paper, accompanied by the splash of blue of a logo I recognise. The number for a downtown phone line is printed in black text below some corny slogan along the lines of: _stay cool… let us clean your pool!_

I tug the business card from out under the magnet that holds it there, and stalk over to the phone. I dial the number, and rest the handset between my shoulder and ear, as I turn the card over in my hands. I try to imagine what Marco's reaction will be when I tell him about the way that little shit was winding me up deliberately. Will he laugh? Or will he tell me to _fuck off_ because it's a Sunday.

Shit, right. It's a Sunday. Will they even be open on a Sunday?

My question is answered when the dial tone clicks through after the fifth ring or so. A low tenor answers the call in a practiced speech.

"Hello, you've reached _Trost Pool Servicing & Repair_. You're talking to Erwin. How can I help you?"

My mind wasn't expecting anyone other than Marco to pick up and automatically know it was me – so I stammer a bit when faced with the deep voice of some stranger.

"Uh, hi? I'm… er, I'm looking for—" I quickly realise I don't even know Marco's _surname_. "I'm looking for one of your guys called Marco? I kinda need… that is, the pool kinda needs… well. Is Marco there?"

"Can I take you name, please?" Erwin asks. I oblige. "Kirschtein… Kirschtein. Right! Oh yeah, you _are_ one of Marco's."

I purse my lips into a taught line, squeezing the handset a little tighter between my shoulder and cheek. There's rustling on the other end, as I imagine he's holding something over the receiver as he converses with another colleague. I can just about make it out.

"Hey Levi, does Marco work on Sundays?"

"No, you dumb-ass, it's meant to be his day off. How many times?" comes the reply, just as low, and sounding pretty abrasive.

The phone line rustles again, and Erwin comes back on.

"Sorry, Marco doesn't work on Sundays, I'm afraid. I can put you down on his schedule for tomorrow, if you like? That's the earliest he'll be able to make it."

I let slip a low hum, my eyes focussing on the pool outside.

"It's kinda… an emergency?" I say, _maybe_ playing up on the dramatics a bit. "You got a number I can reach him on or anything?"

I hear Erwin turn back to his co-worker:

"Levi, do we have Marco's home number anywhere? Would it be on his file?"

"You idiot, don't just go giving out people's phone numbers to shitty-ass strangers." Wow. That guy really has a stick up his ass. "Just tell him to fuck off and call back on Monday. Christ."

"I'm Marco's friend," I add, in an attempt to persuade the obviously more inclined Erwin to my cause. "He'll be cool with it. Honest."

There's a moment or two of silence, and I briefly wonder if the guy called Levi has come over and abruptly hung up the phone on me. Fortunately, that's not the case.

"…Levi, could you grab me Marco's file?"

"Holy shit Erwin, leave the kid alone! He's probably at home and doesn't want to be bothered by your pasty ass right now! _Remember_?"

"Would it help if I asked nicely?" Erwin retorts. "What's with that face?" There's some more general commotion on the other end of the line, before I'm spoken to again. "I've just got to go and find Marco's file, but I'll be right back. Just hold on for two seconds."

I hear him prop down his handset on whatever desk he must've been sitting at, and then a muffled string of curses from Levi, as I imagine Erwin passes by him. I start to feel a little pang of guilt in the pit of my stomach when I realise it might be a _mildly_ shitty thing to disturb Marco at home on his day off. Especially over something that _yeah_, is kinda silly.

"Oookay, here we go," comes Erwin's voice once more. "You got a pen and paper?"

He recites the number to me, and I tap it into a memo on my cell. The dial code is for the other side of the city, I muse. I finally hang up, though not without hearing one last frustrated grumble from Erwin's co-worker.

Immediately, I begin stabbing the numbers of Marco's home phone into the receiver, and press it back to my ear. This time I keep a firm grip on the hard plastic.

It rings at least eleven times (not that I'm counting or anything…), before someone eventually answers. I realise I've been holding a bated breath.

"Hello?" The voice belongs to an older woman.

I open and close my mouth multiple times, trying to form words. What exactly do I say? _Hi, I'm Jean, could you grab Marco for me, because a dog pissed in my swimming pool and I don't want to clean it up by myself._ I'm a capital D for douche, right now.

"Hello?" she repeats. "Is anyone there?"

"S-sorry, yes! Uh, does Marco live there?" My voice comes out pretty much like a squeak. I cringe.

"… Who's calling?" I can hear suspicion in her voice, as well as something more. She sounds tired. Really tired.

"Jean," I say, trying to steady the way I sound. "Jean Kirschtein. I –uh – I'm Marco's… friend?"

I listen closer. There's noise in the background: the gentle thrum of a TV, and low conversation, I think, but I can't make out the words.

"Marco," the woman says, softly, before I realise she's not talking to me. "There's someone on the phone for you. He says his name is Jean."

That's when Marco's voice seems to separate from the general background noise.

"Jean?" he says, sounding surprised. Well, of course he would. "Did he say why he was calling?"

"No," she replies, and her voice becomes somewhat quieter. She probably doesn't want me to overhear. "Do you want me to say that you're busy?"

Well, that's slightly rude.

"No, mom, it's okay!" I hear Marco exclaim. His voice becomes louder as he nears the phone. "It's fine, let me talk to him. You go sit with dad."

There's a muffled murmur of acknowledgement or something, and then there's Marco's voice, crisp and clear. But he only says one word.

"Jean." It sounds like it leaves his lips as some sort of exasperated sigh. That takes me a back.

"H-hey man," I say, running a hand through my bed hair. "Sorry about calling you on a Sunday – uh, the guys at your office gave me the number by the way, so like, I'm not creeping or anythi—"

"Jean," he repeats, more forcefully. "What's up?" I notice there's that same degree of tiredness in his voice, as with his mom's. Kinda weary. Kind drawn-out. I'm not a fan.

"Well, uh, you're gonna laugh okay?" I admit sheepishly. Ugh, maybe this was a mistake. "So, uh, there was this _dog_…"

I take him not replying as a sign to keep going.

"And I, uh… well, I tried to stop it, the little shit. But it totally was doing it to spite me – and yeah, I know that a dog shouldn't be able to feel things like spite, but seriously, this one's a real sh– listen, to lay it straight for you, the neighbour's dog pissed in the pool."

A moment or two of silence. But then his chuckle lights up the line. I breathe a sigh of relief.

"You're _ridiculous_," he muses, but still his laugh sounds weak. "I hope you didn't _hurt_ it, Jean."

"Oh, you bet I fucking thought about it," I shoot back, leaning over the kitchen counter as I talk. "Little fucker got away before I could catch it. It was so fucking gross, man."

"So you called to inform me that you were bested by a dog then?"

"… Not exactly," I reply. "I… uh, you don't think you could come over here and uh, you know? Do what you do."

"_Jean_," he repeats again. My name is long, the vowels drawn-out. I immediately back-track.

"I mean, only if you've got nothing better to do and don't mind, man! I know it's pretty shitty of me to call on a Sunday, and like, I'll make it up to you, I promise! I'll pay you double your normal rate? Triple? It's just… oh man, it's just gross, alright?"

"You know the chlorine will kill any bacteria in the water, right?" Marco adds quietly, avoiding answering any of what I said directly. "I don't exactly know what you want me to do, Jean."

I breathe out through my nose – the sound probably travels across the line.

"Please?"

The way he sighs makes it sound like he's torn, and I reckon I really have overstepped the mark of idiocy here. But he surprises me.

"Alright. Alright Jean. I'll be over in half an hour. I was meaning to check your chlorine levels when I was over yesterday as it was."

"O-oh okay!"

"I'll see you in a bit then."

* * *

I spend the thirty minutes it takes for Marco to arrive pacing around the kitchen, after sourcing a pair of sweatpants and an old t shirt I used to use as pyjamas, from the clean laundry in the utility room.

I'm literally half way across the back yard when I hear the drone of his van's engine pull up on the other side of the hedge. I meet him at the gate.

"Jean!" he exclaims in surprise, practically turning around from his van and straight into my face. He looks me up and down, and I watch his pupils blow a little. "Did you literally just roll out of bed? Your hair!"

I reach up to smooth down the bird's nest of bed hair that I'm sure I'm rocking. Probably should sorted that. It's cowlicks galore.

"Not the issue here!" I retort, pulling the gate open so that he can come in. I quickly pass a glance over him, noticing the way his polo shirt is caught up in the waistband of his shorts, probably having been thrown on in a hurry. The freckles on his face seem to stand out more than usual – is he paler? He sure looks it. That, and the dark circles strung beneath his eyes. He looks like he hasn't slept a wink.

"I _am_ sorry about this, man," I apologise, kicking my foot into the grass as he dumps one of his buckets at the pool side. "You really didn't have to come if you were busy. I just—"

"I'm here, aren't I?" he smiles – feebly. "It's fine, Jean. I wasn't doing much."

_Liar_. I'm not an idiot. Well, sometimes I am. But I know full well the look of someone retreating into themselves. I rocked it for twelve months solid.

I try to raise conversation multiple times as he goes about measuring the chlorine balance in the pool – but each time he replies with a polite line that prevents me from really asking anything else. It's all very distant. And very un-Marco.

When he announces that he's finished, I try to broach the subject.

"I'll see you Wednesday then, right?" I say first. "I hope whatever shit's troubling you clears up by then."

He tries – and fails – to feign puzzlement as he raises an eyebrow. I fold my arms purposely across my chest, in a gesture of _I'm not taking shit from you, okay?_

He smiles a sad, small smile.

"Thank you, Jean. I'll see you."

* * *

I sit in the kitchen for most of the day, having dragged my laptop and its charger down from my room shortly after Marco left. I attempt a couple questions on the university portal, but that pretty much falls through, and I resort to scrolling through my news feed on Facebook for a couple, tedious hours.

Around six, I get a text from my mom.

**From: Mom  
Hey darling, I'm going out with the girls tonight, so don't wait up. Your dad said he would be back late too, so just buy yourself a takeout. Love you xxx**

Alrighty then. I never pass up an excuse for a pizza.

I order a large with all the meat toppings I can legitimately cram on there without posing the risk of having a heart attack from just one bite. Twenty minutes later, and I'm tucking in to some cheesy goodness.

On my Facebook, a status update from Reiner pops up – something about football which I couldn't really care less about – but thinking about Reiner makes me think about Bert, which in turn makes me think about Marco. I wonder how well they know him? Specifically, I wonder if they know him well enough that they'd know what's up?

I shake my head. Marco never brings any of his friends up, and the only time we've actually spoken about macho-man and his sweaty prince is when I've recalled a few of my vast collection of embarrassing stories.

It can't be coincidence when I get a text from Connie when I'm three slices in to my pizza.

**From: the coolest guy you'll ever meet  
hey man do u wanna go round to berts on tuesday to study ? he said hed help me with some bio so maybe u could ask about some chemistry too ?**

With it being only two weeks away from the dreaded first exam, I've got no lectures this week coming – just the odd revision class. As such, I do have Tuesday off.

**To: the coolest guy you'll ever meet  
sure thing man i'm up for that**

Connie and I swap a few more texts over the course of the evening – mostly regarding the fact that apparently Reiner's got a PS4, and Connie really wants to have a shot at it, seeing as we're both mainly Xbox guys.

By the time it hits one in the morning, I'm still slumped in the kitchen, and still rocking the semi-pyjamas get-up from this morning. The back yard is bathed in the perpetual twilight that comes from living in a suburban neighbourhood like this – a dark, hazy yellow, which seems heavy. I yawn loudly, stretching my arms up above my head until my shoulders crack.

At that moment, I hear the fumbling of a key in the front door, and then the crass stumbling of feet. Prolonged seconds later, and my dad blunders into the kitchen.

He's drunk. I can smell the sickly-sweet stench of beer breath from here.

"H-hey son," he hiccups, gripping onto the counter for balance. I close the lid of my laptop, and stare at him judgmentally. There's a smattering of pink lipsticks stains all over his shirt collar. "You… you doin' alright there?"

I narrow my eyes, tucking my laptop beneath my arm, and gathering its cable up in my hands.

"Pig."

He's too drunk to even hear me. I shoulder my way past him, grimacing. I don't want to look.

* * *

I guess it's not too late for a self-depreciating cigarette.

I wriggle onto the roof with as much grace as an out-of-water fish, and take up my usual position straddling the gable of my window. The skyscrapers of central Trost glimmer in the distance, all lit up like a fucking Christmas tree or something. I feel angry just looking at them.

I take a few, therapeutic puffs, waiting for the nicotine rush to arrive. It's not as great as I woulda liked. Smoke billows out of my nostrils as I exhale.

I wonder if this is how it is for everyone my age – just no-one talks about it. This point in my life is meant to be stressful because of picking majors, or common app errors, or trying to sort the taxes on my savings account.

I shouldn't be spending my time Googling why men cheat on their wives of twenty-odd years.

I cough on the smoke in my throat as it goes down the wrong way.

Most of the studies I've read point out that men begin to cheat after they've had children. I wonder how long this has been going on for, how long before I was old enough to realise the weird looking websites I'd sometimes catch on his desktop browser, that he started this.

I feel my heart drop into a bottomless pit. I try to pin a date on the day I said goodbye to my dad. I can't.

I kinda feel like I might puke. My stomach churns itself in all sorts of ways, and that jolting feeling of being about to wretch makes me shudder.

Glowing embers disintegrate from the end of my cigarette, and flutter down over the slate tiles. They light up like glow worms or some shit in this semi-darkness. My hand brushes over my thigh, the pocket where my cell phone is.

The Jean of last year was okay with the whole suffering in silence thing. I could've sat through one thousand phone calls from each one of dad's secretaries. But not now. I have a nagging urge to just _talk_. To someone. Anyone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** Technically this was all part of chapter 5, but it got so long that I divided it up, and added a bit more to this half of the proceedings.  
This time feels more emotional, and I'm enjoying getting into writing the more intimate scenes (I feel the pacing is about right, judging by the feedback you lovelies have been giving me).

I'm not explicitly answering questions, but you can take a good guess about both Jean and Marco's stories from the hints I've dropped so far. As always, I appreciate the HELL out of all the comments (and kudos) you have all given me - but the more feedback as to what you like and dislike, the better I can make the story! Please let me know whether or not you feel Jean's thoughts and emotions feel realistic to you?

Also props to nikkispartanva, who's gonna be podfic-ing this for us all - the taster sounds great! (Even if it's so cringe for me to listen to my own writing back lmao)

**Chapter 6:** Accidentally In Love

* * *

I close my eyes and all I can see behind my eyelids are the pink smears of lipstick all over my dad's shirt collar. I want it to stop. I don't want every other thought to retreat to who's he's fucking, who's he's talking to on the phone in hushed tones, _what my mom's doing whilst all this is going on_.

I just hate that god-damn shade of pink.

There's a pain in my chest, in my limbs, in my head – that has never felt so real until now. People say that, don't they, the way that the pain just seems to radiate out of you, bolts your feet to the floor, twists your gut into all sorts of impossible shapes. You're supposed to drown in it all.

I curl up on my bed, pulling the sheets up around my neck, despite the sheen of sweat forming across my forehead, on my palms, and behind my knees. I assume the foetal position, and wrap my arms around my stomach, in the hope that it might help me hold myself together.

I'm angry. I feel like crying pretty shamefully. I also feel like marching down into the kitchen right now, grabbing my dad by the back of his fucking lipstick-stained collar and throwing him out into the street.

I see the face of my mom as I squeeze my eyes shut tighter still. What did she do to deserve this? Watch her weight for twenty years and inject her face full of chemicals to keep her young for him? Victim. _Victim_. We're both victims in this.

_No, Jean. You're an accomplice. You know that._

I'm trembling now, properly fucking shaking, and I can't stop it. Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. I'm just as bad as him.

* * *

On Monday morning, I stagger into college, feeling, I guess, hung over, even though I haven't had anything to drink in a long while. That's really the best way to describe it. The horrible hotness swallowing everything in my head, the way it takes all my strength just to drag one foot forward, step after step. Everything just seems to echo a bit too loudly, but is indistinguishable all the same.

It's unbelievably hard to control my thoughts; someone else is running with them, and I'm just being dragged along for the ride. Concentration is hard, but then, at the same time, not hard enough. I pick up on my breathing – heavy; the knot in my stomach, the buzzing in my head. I can concentrate on all that very well indeed.

I sit through two hours of revision workshops wishing for matchsticks to literally hold my eyes open. Connie doesn't seem to notice – he's babbling away to Sasha about summer plans, or something. I only hear the odd word, and even those have a tendency to sort of float in one ear and out the other, coated in the sticky haze of _fuck my life_.

We're sitting at our table in the cafeteria, and I'm nursing a glass of water, when Ymir approaches us, her thin, lanky arm slung around Historia's shoulders. I squint at them, wondering if maybe I'm just seeing things.

Thoughts of my dad, of his _whores_, thoughts of my mom – they become mingled with the memory of last week, the looks of Ymir's scowl, of Historia's pity, of Eren. Eren. _Fuck you_, Eren. I can't deal with anything more on top of this already.

"Yo, Springer!" Ymir addresses casually, causing Connie to look up from where he and Sasha are scrolling through a playlist on her phone. "Armin says you were sorting out the playlist for this year's summer party! I thought I'd come and offer my services to make sure you don't put any of that _Korean pop shit_ that was on there last time."

"How do you even remember that?" Sasha rebukes, "You were so drunk you couldn't even stand up straight without Historia!"

"I was not," Ymir scoffs, pulling out the chair next to me, and dragging Historia into her lap with a mildly alarmed squeak. I continue to stare at them like I'm, I don't know, _slow in the head_, or something. I feel like I'm thinking in slow motion, my brain stuffed full of cotton balls.

"I'm pretty sure I remember me, Eren _and_ Mikasa having to haul your skinny butt up the stairs and put you to bed before we even did the fireworks, actually," Connie smirks, causing Ymir to scowl.

Fireworks. Right. I begin to put it together, what they're talking about.

Connie's always hosted a summer party post-end of exams, for as long as I can remember. Well, more like, since getting drunk off your face became appealing, when we were all about fifteen-ish. I find myself craving the burn of something strong down the back of my throat, and the comforting, warm buzz that would follow in my forehead.

_No, you're supposed to drink it slowly, so you drown in your pain._

"Are you going to come this year, Jean?" Historia says – I just stare dumbly into her beautiful, baby blue eyes. Dang son, a guy could get lost in those. (Mildly sucks that she definitely bats for the other team.) "Jean?" Oh right, she's talking to me.

_Wait a minute._

"He's been out of it all day," Sasha butts in then, nudging me from across the table. "All his studying has finally melted his brain. If you look closely, you can actually see it coming out of his ears."

"No, I'm—" I begin suddenly, almost knocking my half-empty glass of water over as I sit up straight. Ymir and Historia both stare at me questioningly. "I mean, uh…" I turn to look at Connie. "Yeah, I'm coming?"

"Who else can pay for all the booze," Connie states sincerely, giving me a curt nod. I want to make a snarky remark about them only being friends with me for my materialistic value, but all I can process is the fact that this is actually a conversation that we're having. Me. Connie and Sasha.

Ymir.

Historia.

Who are… not ignoring me? Right. Talk about a rollercoaster of five minutes.

"Good," Ymir smirks – though it really looks more like a snarl. "I've heard stories about drunk Jean. I want to see it in person." (I should probably note that Historia and Ymir only started dating at the beginning of last summer, and well, we all know where I've been the last twelve months. Though then again, apparently Ymir's an _angry_ drunk, so maybe it was better for my safety…)

Historia gently elbows her girlfriend in the ribs – Ymir only tightens her grip around the cute blonde's thin waist, and nuzzles her face into the base of her neck.

Connie and Sasha launch into a full run down of their plans for the famed party – to which Ymir throws in her two cents liberally, Historia trying to counter anything she says that's _too_ rude. I literally just sit there, dumbfounded.

Mondays. It's always Mondays.

The fuzzy haze from before that swamped my head is… well, it's still a fuzzy haze, but not one that makes me feel all queasy and the like. It's just one of: _just like that? Is that all it took? Does it just go back to normal like that?_

But in a good way. I take a glance over at Eren across the room. He's looking this way, a firm scowl set across his dark features. His blue-green eyes are piercing.

Somewhere amidst the general self-loathing of today, I guess I feel just a little bit smug.

* * *

Once I remember how to speak again, I find myself hesitantly joining in with Connie and the others about the party plans. Ymir explains that she can probably score a few crates of beer from where she works, and to that, Sasha adds that she's been keeping a vodka fund for the last few months in preparation for what she's suddenly started calling: _the social event of the year_.

Any and all thoughts of my dad's infidelity are pushed to the back of my mind when Sasha slides her phone across the table to me, to show me the playlist they've already started putting together. I find myself staring dumbly at the screen for probably a little too long – I guess when you've had enough knives stuck into you, when someone hands you something good, you just can't make it out. It takes a while.

"Earth to Jean?" Sasha asks; she waves a hand in front of my face. I think I recognise a breath of concern flash across her features. She knows something's up. The dark circles beneath my eyes probably don't help the matter. "What do you think?"

I scroll through it quickly – not too bad, but not great either. I dutifully offer my record collection to the cause, which Ymir thanks me for. Turns out we have a surprisingly similar music taste.

Things, however, don't stay so peachy for long. Because it doesn't take long for me to realise that yes, I'm probably gonna be making an appearance at this thing, but also Eren's going to be going. Eren, who's still definitely glaring in this direction right now because I can still feel that shit burning into my back. Problem.

"I can't go," I sigh, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyeballs. All four pairs of eyes turn to look at me. "Eren'll be there. It'll just cause drama if we're both there," I explain. I don't think I can cope with any _more_ drama.

"Oh fuck him," Ymir groans; I'm just more than a little taken a back. "He's just acting like a dickwad. Especially lately."

"Needs to grow up," Sasha agrees.

"Don't let him spoil it for you, Jean," Historia smiles.

"As long as you don't deck him one again," Connie adds. I roll my eyes, but the feeling of doubt doesn't seem to leave my chest. It just seems to constrict in on itself, like a vice. "I refuse to get blood in my car if I have to drive him to hospital again, okay?"

"I think Jean's calmed down since then," Historia says quietly, reaching out to rest a delicate hand on my forearm, comfortingly, like it's the most natural thing in the world to her. The touch surprises me. I feel warmth seep into the (metaphorical) cracks in my skin. "I'm sure it'll be all alright."

* * *

I'm not sure how I make it through the rest of the day – I sort of just… drift. Once or twice, I feel Sasha's hand on my shoulder, but I shrug it off, after informing her quietly that I'm fine. The first time, she smiles softly when I say this. The second time, I see her frown. But she doesn't raise the topic again.

I decide to skip the last revision workshop of the day – mainly because it's French, I'm feeling semi-confident in that, and I don't know how I'll cope in a class where I'm friend-less. (How on earth I did it before is anyone's guess.) Connie's chatter really does something to relieve the general grey cloud that's hanging over me today.

The drive home is quick – I barely notice it, stuck on autopilot as I navigate the afternoon traffic of central Trost. I only come to my senses, really, when I'm sitting at my laptop, scrolling through today's news on Facebook.

I notice I have a new friend request, the little red blip in the top corner of my screen. I hover over it: Ymir. And then the magnitude of today's events just comes crashing back in.

I groan, and curl over my desk, holding my head between my temples, elbows resting either side of my keyboard.

It feels like that, whenever things happen, they always have to happen all at once. I'm the sort of guy who likes to keep things nice and simple. _And_ I'm a cynical bastard, I know that.

I want to be happy – because the last time Historia actually spoke to me was a day in twelfth grade, the day after the Eren incident, when she informed me she'd be wanting the textbooks I'd borrowed from her back. I want to be happy because, would you look at that, two _more_ people who are talking to loser-Jean. Happy. Lucky.

_Confused. All this started just because of my stupid, pathetic –_

Yeah, just not feeling it today.

I click to accept the friend request none the less, and find myself continuing to scroll. And then I notice something else.

It's just a status update, from Reiner. I don't even read it (he tends to update his status far too often anyway…). But I read the comments. Well, the third comment, because how can I ignore the way my eyes are instantly drawn the little freckled display picture.

Marco. Marco _Bodt_.

My finger moves so quickly to my mouse pad that I almost end up clicking on an ad, instead of his name. The page changes to Marco's profile then: his Timeline picture is obviously old, because it's of him and a few others in their high school graduation robes. Marco's tightly clutching his diploma in his right hand, his other arm slung over the guy next to him, and his face is lit up in a brilliant smile.

I bite my lip, and scroll down a little further on his profile.

There's not much – I'd peg him for a guy who doesn't use the internet much anyway – his feed is mainly made up of notifications from dumb-looking apps: horoscopes, Farmville (oh dear), and then also a handful of messages from family relations wishing him well. Not many status updates, basically. I'm kinda disappointed. (And not because I wanted to stalk him… not at all.)

_Hi Marco, I hope everything is ok at home. I heard about what happened, and our thoughts and prayers are with you all. Give me a ring when you have the time, sweetheart._

As I'm browsing, that comment appears at the top of the page, from someone I assume is a relative of some sort (judging by the freckles in their display pic as well). I read it a couple times, frowning as I do.

A reply then pops up from Marco himself:

_Thank you for your message. I'll be sure to give you a ring when I get off work._

Short, simple. But not sweet. Well, not that I think. I want to write a reply, but, not being friends with the guy on Facebook, there's no comment box for me. I consider it – hitting the request button, or sending him a PM, but decide against it. What exactly would I say? _Hey Marco, it's me. Saw something's up, and you're probably feeling shit judging from what you were like yesterday, and well, so am I._ Fucking peachy, right?

Still, though. I find myself wishing for that friendly smile, and someone to confide in. I get the feeling that just admitting to someone else that I'm feeling a bit more fucked up in the head than usual might do me some good. Getting of the chest and all, right? Right. Not going to happen. I'm _ever_ so good with feelings, after all.

I close the lid of my laptop without minimising the browser, and push it to the side of my desk, replacing it instead with some revision notes.

* * *

Connie and I take his manky, old pickup to Bert and Reiner's place the next day (to hold them up on Bert's offer of a study session) – it's easier, because Connie has to pass by my neighbourhood on his way across town anyway. (Plus, my car may or may not be out of gas…)

"Are you still worrying about the party, man?" Connie asks, stopping his fingers from drumming along to the radio on the steering wheel, as he glances over at me as we're coasting along the freeway. I must look like I'm angsting again, leant against the pickup's dirty window, despite the mild concussion I'm getting from having my temple pressed up against the vibrating glass. "Sasha said you were looking pretty beat up at college yesterday, and thought something might be up."

"Kinda," I shrug. "More thinking about yesterday in general though. You know, with Ymir and Historia."

Mild lie. Not just Ymir and Historia. But also my dad. But also the way my mom had smiled so proudly at me when I told her I was going out today to study with friends, plural. Didn't _quite_ feel like I deserved a smile like that.

"What d'ya mean?"

I shoot him a look that asks: _do you really not know what I'm trying to get at here_? I'll take a bet that you can probably see it all over my face.

"You know," I press, "The fact that they just sauntered over and started up idle chat like nothing ever happened?" Like I never beat the living daylights out of Eren in front of _everyone_.

Connie just shrugs indifferently.

"I told you before, man. No-one talks about that anymore. No-one really cares. Well, besides Eren," he says. Noting my unconvinced expression, he adds, "They've seen you talking to people again. Of course they're going to approach you. I wasn't the only one who'd had enough of you avoiding us at every possible opportunity."

_Seen me talking to people again_. But I wasn't the one who—

No, you know what, _I was_. I said this before, and I'll say it again. Equal parts my fault. The walls I build up after the Eren incident were pretty fucking tall. The sort you'd need the aid of grappling hooks or _giants_ to knock down.

I get the feeling that I may or not have fucked up a lot. And the only person I really have to blame is sitting right here in this car. (And he's not bald.)

"Sorry man," I say quietly. "I guess I… shouldn't have shut myself away like that…"

"Damn straight." The pickup slows, and Connie rattles it into park behind a muscle-bound Dodge Challenger; I hadn't even noticed us leave the freeway. "This is their place, right? I can never remember which number it is, because I think I'm usually drunk whenever I come over…"

I'm pretty sure I've already mentioned the fact that Reiner plays for the Trost Titans full time – and boy does that pay well. Him and Bert live in a massive, white house (or at least, massive on student terms… it's still a little ways off the size of my own house) on the outskirts of the city, halfway up the hill-side; Connie says that they only moved in two years ago, when Bert started university, and he and Reiner started dating.

That's cool and all. But I'm definitely more interested in this much-talked about PS4 set up that has Connie basically frothing at the mouth in excitement.

No. Here to study. Fourteen days to go, remember.

Reiner answers the door when we ring the bell – I baulk at the size of him, and how I'm pretty sure that shirt is going to rip any moment because _oh my god have you seen his pecks_? I always seem to forget the extent to which he really does look like he's just swallowed a bucket of steroids.

"Hey guys!" he grins; Connie and I attempt to slither around him, between his rippling mass of muscle and the door frame. If I feel small right now, I bet Connie feels like he could be stepped on at any moment. "Bert's in the living room, so come on in."

Their hallway is decorated with a lot of photos of the Titans; a framed football shirt sits on the wall at the base of the stairs, whilst the only piece of furniture immediately visible is a large, wooden display cabinet, crammed full of a whole bunch of trophies and placards. Well, Reiner's not usually one to shy away from the spotlight.

Sure enough, Bert is in the living room, leaning back against the sofa, with an array of textbooks surrounding him on the floor, like some sort of satanic ritual to summon good grades. Or not. He just seems to be watching TV peacefully when we walk in. A small blond girl with a what-can-only-be-described-as murderous expression on her face is curled on the sofa, munching her way through a packet of crackers, her blue stare intent on the television screen too.

Ah, that must be the infamous Annie whom Connie had the _pleasure_ of meeting last time. I make a mental note that half the reason I was probably invited along was prevent _that_ situation happening again. Can't blame him. This chick is scary. I can practically feel him cowering away beside me.

Connie and I spread out our books alongside Bert's on the carpet, after the customary 'hellos', and some studying is actually done, despite the incessant munching from Annie's corner of the couch, and Reiner's unhelpful comments about "what the fuck do all those squiggling little symbols mean?" when he looks over my shoulder at my Chemistry problems.

I find that Reiner has a _very_ odd taste in TV, even amongst the general rubbish that is daytime trash. He flicks between some horrific trailer-trash show about storage auctions (which he hums along to the theme tune of), and then becomes particularly embroiled in a rerun of Jeremy Kyle (I'm so glad that shit got cancelled when it did…).

Just as I'm leaning back on my haunches after tackling a particularly tricky organic mechanism, the house phone rings, some tasteless custom ringtone that automatically just makes me assume it was Reiner's choosing too.

"I'll get it," Bert announces – neither Reiner nor Annie seem to budge as it is. The sweaty prince heaves himself to his feet, and skitters into the hallway. I flip the page of my textbook over to the next set of questions, partially aware of the conversation Bert's having.

"Oh, hello," I hear him greet the person on the other end, who I guess he knows. "No, I'm good. How're you? Oh… oh no, of course. W-would you like to? I definitely don't mind, really." Reiner looks up at the same point I do, when we both recognise a slight tremor in Bert's voice. "R-really, it's okay. Just whenever you can is okay. Honestly."

Bert places the handset back into its cradle, and Reiner collapses back into the couch cushions with a grunt, shifting his legs to try and get them comfortable around the back of Annie. He leans his head back over the armrest, watching Bert from upside down as he re-enters the living room.

"Again, babe?" he asks, cryptically. Bert just nods, a quiet sigh escaping his lips as he rings his hands. I don't have much time to dwell on it though, as Connie flops back onto the carpet with a strangled groan of complete defeat. I think he's just about ready to offer up his soul to the Biology gods.

"I don't get thiiiiiiiis," he moans, laying a hand over his face. "Bert, you gotta help me, man!"

Connie's complaining over some Biology bullshit continues for a good twenty minutes or so, despite Bert's best methods to explain the problems. His whining makes it difficult to concentrate (that, and there's only so much studying you can do without going insane once in a while), so I throw down my pen, and sit back against the sofa skirting, zoning in on whatever crap Reiner's tuned in on.

I don't have to suffer it for very long, because my attention is diverted with the rumble of an engine outside. Bert instantly looks up from Connie's text book, and gets to his feet, heading for the front door. I watch him leave, and then crane my neck to peer out the window from my position on the floor.

My eyes dart straight to the watery logo of _Trost Pool Service & Repair_ plastered across the side of a white Vauxhall Combo that has pulled up to the curb behind Connie's pickup.

"Wait a sec," I start, glancing back over my shoulder at Reiner. "Do you guys have a pool here?"

Reiner doesn't miss a beat as he replies, "What, Kirschtein, you _that_ desperate to see me in my mankini?"

I feel all the blood rush to my face in the same moment, as Reiner and Connie both roar with laughter and Annie even offers a snigger.

"You'd have to provide the bleach for me to wash my eyes out with after," I mutter, "Thank you for that lovely mental picture."

"You look like a tomato," Annie deadpans.

"_Thank you_ for that."

Reiner pulls himself up into a sitting position on the couch, pulling his feet out from underneath Annie – she glares at him as he shifts. Taking a look out of the window himself, a look of recognition appears on his features.

"Oh, right," he says, "The van. I get ya' now. It's just Marco, one of Bert's friends. He comes 'round from time to time."

_Marco?_

My heart seems to thump pretty loudly as I watch said once-pool-boy, now-also-friend emerge from his van, and stride briskly up the path to the front door. I can't see his face so well from my limited position, but the way his shoulders droop doesn't go unnoticed.

"Marco?" Connie perks up, shuffling on his knees over to the window sill, "As in your pool guy, Jean?"

"I-it looks that way," I reply, but my mind is one hundred fucking miles away. Well, no, that's a lie. My mind is about ten meters away, actually, as I hear Bert open the front door.

"H-hey, Marco," I hear Bert's gentle voice. "How are you?"

"… I'm okay," comes Marco's voice; it's that same tone that I heard on the phone on Sunday – tired. Very, very tired. Not the usually melody that I'm used to. Not the chime that comes with the smile. "I'm managing. Thank you for this, Bert. I think I just need the peace of mind."

"O-oh, no, no it's fine. Don't worry about it! I'm glad to help out." I hear both their sets of footsteps on the tiles of the hallway, and realise I'm holding my breath. I let it out quietly, hoping that none of the others notice. "Do you want to come into the kitchen to talk? We've got some guests over…"

"You do? I'm really sorry, Bert, I didn't mean to—"

They appear in the open doorway at that moment, and it's all I can do not to stare. Actually, no, fuck that, I don't even try _not_ to stare. Because there's Marco, staring straight back at me, mouth a gape.

It strikes me that this is the first time we've come across each other beyond the cleaning of my pool – and actually, this is the first time I've seen him not in his uniform (minus the varying degrees of semi-nakedness that may or may not have occurred in the past few weeks…). He's wearing a pair of light weight slacks, and a soft grey button-down, his sleeves rolled up around his elbows, and the top button undone. He looks _good_.

Well, I say that. But he looks so pale, gaunt, not like the healthy, smiley Marco I'm used to seeing twice a week in my back yard. His shoulders look so tense.

"_Jean_!" he all but squeaks. I could laugh, if it weren't for the weirdness of the situation. Boy do I have a lot of question right about now.

"H-hey," I reply awkwardly, scratching the back of my neck as I try to look anywhere but his eyes. Ever the smooth one. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he breathes, and it surprises me to see the gentle smile that seems to glide onto his lips. The back of my neck feels a little bit warm. My ears do too. "I'm okay."

"Do you know each other?" Bert then asks, disrupting the moment.

"Oh! Yeah, we do," Marco smiles – but it's not the same sort of smile. He doesn't look as sincere, I don't think. "I… uh, I clean Jean's pool actually."

"We're _friends_," I find myself correcting Marco, the words spilling out before I have time to change how forceful they sound. Marco's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. "I… I mean, like… we're friends, and he also… cleans my pool… sometimes…"

"Is cleaning the pool a euphemism for something?" Reiner interjects slyly. I can hear Connie's evil chuckling too. I can only imagine what my face must look like – well, I guess something like Marco's, actually. He's bright red, his freckles disappearing into a violent blush.

"You can shut the fuck up right there," I exclaim, using the closest Chemistry textbook I have to smack Reiner on the arm with. I aim for his head, but he overpowers me without even sitting up, and steals my weapon away from me. "Hey, give that back!"

"I think the lady doth protest too much," Reiner cackles, holding me back with one ginormous arm as I try to grapple for my book. _Oh my God, please shut the fuck up right now, this is so fucking embarr—_

Amidst my war on Reiner, I glance up at Marco – his face is still red, sure, but he's no longer looking at me, instead whispering to Bert, who's nodding solemnly. Whilst I'm not looking, Reiner brings my own textbook down on my head – hard.

_Fucking hell!_

I'm literally about to shout at him something the long the lines of: _what the fuck was that for, I'm gonna need those fucking brain cells!_, when Marco's voice stops me. He's pretty good at that.

"B-Bert and I just have some stuff to discuss," he says. He's addressing everyone, but he's looking at me. _Only me_. "I'm sorry about interrupting your study session, guys."

I watch them both turn and leave, my eyes following the way Marco's shoulder hunch beneath his shirt. My usual scowl sits on my face, and I chew the inside of my cheek in thought.

"Poor guy," Reiner then says, once we hear the kitchen door be pushed to. "But if I was in the same position, I'd probably do the same."

_What position is that_, I find myself wanting to ask. But I don't. I keep my mouth clamped shut in a tight line, and trace the patterns in the carpet with my eyes. I feel it wouldn't be fair to Marco to go asking others about his personal problems, especially if he hasn't told anyone else about them. Hasn't told me.

With Bert out of the room, Connie decides to completely give up on the revision front of things, and sidles over to the PS4 set up next to the TV, practically stroking the console for all its worth. Reiner laughs loudly, and challenges him to a game on _Call of Duty: Ghosts_.

"You wanna play, Jean?" Connie grins, handing a controller to Reiner, and another to Annie. (Why do I get the impression that she's about to kick both their asses?) I stare dumbly down at the controller I'm being offered, and shake my head.

"Nah, I'll skip this one. I'm not great at _COD_," I lie. I'm very good at _COD_. But that's not the point. "Where's the bathroom, Reiner?"

He gives some vague directions about which door it is, and I haul myself to my feet with some distinct cracking of my joints. That was another lie, actually. I don't really want to go to the bathroom.

I saunter out into the hallway as casually as I can, trying not to like my Converse tap on the wooden floor as I approach definitely-not-the-door that Reiner pointed me to.

Marco and Bert's voices are just about audible from the other side of the kitchen door – and I guess I do feel an ounce of shame from pressing my ear up against the wood.

"So what do you think?" That's Marco's voice.

"Marco… I'm only second year pre-med, you know I don't know what half of these prescriptions even are…" There's the sound of paper rustling. "The doctors know what they're doing; they'll be choosing the most effective drugs out there, you know that."

"Humour me, Bert…"

I don't exactly know how you're supposed to react when you hear this kind of thing – is someone ill? Is Marco ill? He doesn't look ill, just… well, just kinda sad.

The tone in his voice resonates with me; it tickles the dark thoughts that I've been stewing myself in for the last few days. I know for sure that I wouldn't wish _those_ feelings on anyone else. Before I know it, I'm wrapping my knuckles on the door, and announcing my presence.

"Hello?" I call, twisting the door handle and pushing on the wood. The kitchen is bright and sunny, lit up by the large windows that overlook the hill side behind the house. "Can I come in? No-one's naked, are they?"

Marco and Bert both look up from where they're leant over some paperwork on the table; Marco's face seems to relax as I meet his eyes.

"Sorry," I say sheepishly. "Uh… just wanted to grab a drink?"

"Oh, sure!" Bert says, "What would you like, Jean?"

"Nah man, it's okay, I got it," I say, waving him away as he turns towards the fridge. "I think Connie's looking for a player four for _COD_ though… I think they turned to the dark side and gave up on the revision… you fancy it?"

_Wow, Jean, so subtle_.

I steer myself around the kitchen table, passing Marco as I do. His back tenses up as I pass him – and I find myself repressing the sudden urge to reach out and place a hand on his shoulder, or something like that. I open the fridge just as a loud groan echoes through the house.

"Sounds like Annie's whipping ass in there," I add. This time, I shoot Bert as pointed a look as I can manage. I watch as the sweat beads literally appear on his forehead.

"O-oh, yeah," he says, "I better check to make sure they're not… breaking anything…"

Good. Thank you, Bert.

With Bert successfully cleared out of the way, it's just Marco and I, standing opposite sides of the kitchen table from one other. He doesn't look up, his dark gaze focussed on the small wad of paper in front of him – but he's not reading it.

"I thought you wanted a drink, Jean."

_Busted._

"Not thirsty anymore," I shrug, trying to keep my voice as casual as possible. I'm probably not the most successful at that, because even I can hear the tremble in my tone. Marco sighs breathily, and his entire chest deflates.

I decide to bite the bullet.

"You're not okay," I say. Way to state the obvious. I watch Marco's face contort into a frown which really doesn't suit him. "And don't say you are, because even an idiot can see you're lying. And I'm not an idiot. Well, sometimes I am, but…"

It's clear that I'm rambling, but I'd keep rambling for a hell of a long time more if it promised to bring more of the smile that's appearing again on Marco's lips. It almost looks like he's fighting it, the way his lower lip seems to quiver, but he just can't help it.

"Jean," he breathes; composes himself. "Don't worry about it, okay? It's no big deal."

_Oh yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Marco_, I think, folding my arms across my chest defiantly. I know that look perfectly well.

"Give me your van keys," I say abruptly. Marco's face shoots up, and he's looking at me in complete bewilderment. I try to steel my own expression as best I can, and hold out an open palm. "Gimme your keys, man."

I've been informed plenty a time by Connie and Sasha that my glares are perfectly capable of scaring people into doing stuff for me, so I hope this is one of those times.

"If you don't give them up willingly, I'll wrestle them off you," I add. Apparently that's a mental image enough for Marco to spring into action, pull his keys from the pocket of his slacks, and chuck them at me. I just about manage to catch them without dropping them and ruining the cool factor I have going on right now.

"Great," I announce, curling my fingers around the cool metal and plastic of his key rings. "You and me are gonna go on a drive."

"Jean," he says again – I wonder if that's just about the only thing he can say right now. Not that I'm complaining. I like the way he says my name, even when it's like this.

"Don't say a word. You don't get a say in this," I remark. My strides around the table are strong and purposeful, and I feel like I'm vibrating with energy. Marco, on the other hand, just follows me meekly out of the door.

"Connie!" I call, peering around the door into the living room, where the four of them are crammed on the sofa, focused intently on the TV screen.

"What is it Jean?" he calls back, not even looking at me, tapping frantically at the buttons on the controller. "Kinda busy right now!"

"Marco and I are going," I announce, causing Bert to twist around to look at us in surprise. He shoots a questioning gaze at Marco – I reply by slinging my arm over the freckled pool boy's shoulders, and squeeze his arm lightly. I feel him jump a mile under the touch, and he stiffens almost instantly. "Did you hear me, Connie? You don't have'ta take me home, alright?"

"Alright, alright, I got it!" Connie shoots back, still concentrating intently on getting his ass handed to him by Annie, who seems as stoic as ever. I roll my eyes, and give Marco a little tug. He follows me, not unwillingly.

To be honest, this plan all seemed pretty suave in my head. And it was going alright until I slip into the driver's seat of Marco's van, him beside me, looking like someone's just gone and run a cat over in front of him or something.

"Where are we going, Jean?" he asks, as I turn the key in the ignition. The van splutters a bit, but then the rough thrum of the engine takes over.

"It's a surprise," I reply. I reverse us out of park, and then swing onto the road a little too violently. Marco's hand flits to the handle on the door, his fingers curling around it. I promise my driving isn't _that_ bad. Come on now.

I decide then and there where we're going – Reiner and Bert's house is already halfway up the hill as it is, so the outlook isn't far; maybe a ten minute drive at most. The silence doesn't last for long – it's crazy awkward after just thirty seconds of speeding along.

"Jean, I—"

"Hey, do you have—"

We both stop when the other tries to speak. Marco chuckles awkwardly, and rubs the back of his neck, whilst I harden my gaze back on the road ahead.

"You first, Jean."

_Alright, then_.

"Uh… you don't have any music, do you?"

Marco smiles, but it's the forced smile that I've decided I really do not like. He points to my door.

"There's a few CDs in the pocket down there," he says softly. "Take your pick."

I reach down with one hand, and fumble around for a bit, managing to grab a stack of, sure enough, four or five CDs. I pass them across to Marco, trying not to take my eyes off the road as I don't want to miss the turning.

"Read them out for me," I instruct, dropping them into his waiting hands. I can feel his eyes move from the CDs, to me, and back to the CDs again, wordlessly.

"Uhm, okay," he starts quietly. "But you can't… laugh at my music taste."

"I cross my heart," I retort.

"Well, this one's… My Chemical Romance. B-but we're not going there again."

"Quite right."

"And then, uh… the Killers, Fall Out Boy, Snow Patrol, more My Chemical Romance, and uh… the _Shrek 2_ soundtrack…"

"The _Shrek_ _2_ soundtrack?" I laugh. "Why the hell do you have that?!"

"I-it's a good album," Marco replies with a stutter, though I can hear the evidence of a smile pushing its way through. "You just can't help sing along to those sort of songs."

"Fine, fine, put it in then," I smirk. He struggles with opening the case – I realise his fingers are shaking just slightly – but successfully manages to get the disc in the stereo. _Accidently In Love_ by Counting Crows blasts out of the speakers, and Marco frantically turns the volume dial down. It's a pretty infectious tune, I'll give it to him, and I can't help but beat the rhythm against the steering wheel as I take the turning that winds up onto the hilltop.

* * *

The tires of the van kick up a lot of brown dust when I pull onto the dirt track that veers off the main road, towards the outlook. We're four tracks into the _Shrek 2_ soundtrack (which I may or may not be enjoying more than I would've first cared to admit), and Marco seems to have settled down a bit, leaning back into his seat, and not steeling glances at me every ten seconds. The sprawling mass of the city comes into view as we approach the edge, rooftops glinting in the bright sun below us.

Marco sits up then, straining his neck to look a little further into the distance.

"What is this place?" he says – do I detect some sort of appreciation in his tone? That makes me feel secretly smug. I drop the handbrake, and reach to unbuckle my seatbelt, unclipping Marco's at the same time.

"It's cool, right?" I reply. "It used to be a viewpoint or something, I reckon, but all the signs and shit got taken away years ago. Now it's just a good place to come if you… you know… wanna get away from it all." I offer him a rare, non-smirking smile, which causes him to bite his lip. "Come on then, you should check out the view properly."

We both sort of stumble out of the van, shielding our eyes against the sun overhead. I gesture to Marco to follow me, and lead him to where the orange dirt and rocks tumble away over the slope of the cliff edge, into a thorny mess of brambles and shrubs.

"Wow," he breathes, "I didn't think Trost could ever look like this."

I kick a small pebble over the edge, scuffing the white toe-cap of my Converse with an orange-brown smear.

"Yeah, it's not bad," I reply. I sneak a glance at Marco's face: the openness I'm more used to seeing is resting in his eyes. I decide to make the most of the moment. "It's a good place to get stuff off your chest, you know. No-one's gonna hear you."

He looks at me with what I guess is suspicion, clearly picking up on my agenda for bringing him here. I stuff my hands into my pockets, and shrug my shoulders.

"I-I do it all the time," I continue. "Or, well, I used to. Connie, Sash and I used to come up here all the time. Not so much recently, but I'm getting back into it, you know? Sit on the hood of the car, have a couple smokes, complain about your life…" I trail off, still looking at him. His eyes are now fixed on the horizon.

I don't want to make this about me. But I also want him to look at me, properly. And smile. I've grown pretty attached to that smile.

"… I can go first if you like. Show you how it's done."

Marco peeks at me from the corner of his eyes, curiously. Well, there's no going back. Gotta do this now. I mean, he's gonna find out what an idiot I am sooner or later.

I suck in a deep breath, throw my arms in the air, and _yell_ at the top of my lungs.

"Fuck you finals! Fuck you and all your fucking stress! I don't want to have a fucking heart attack before I'm twenty, okay!"

Marco jumps a mile in the air beside me, hand clutching the fabric of his button-down against his chest. His eyes are wide.

"Jesus Christ, Jean!" he exclaims, and I lower my hands for just a moment. "Can you warn me next time before you do that!"

I feel my face explode into a grin, and I run my tongue across my teeth in triumph.

"Oh, I'm not done yet!" I laugh, then raising my voice once more: "Fuck you college! I don't want to pick a fucking major, you hear me! I hate Philosophy! Fucking waste of my fucking time! And I hate you too, Bertrand Russell! Go get a fucking real job instead of spewing bullshit that I have to fucking learn!"

Marco just watches on, in a mix of horror, and perhaps, awe.

"And fuck you Eren fucking Jaeger! You made my life fucking miserable for twelve months you giant piece of shit! Fuck you! And fuck you, dad! I hate your guts! Fucking own up to your piece of shit existence and get out my life!"

I blow a sharp breath, and it feels like some of the pent up anger flies away into the hot air with it. I lace my hands together, and rest them on top of my hair, inhaling, exhaling. Marco's taken a few steps back – probably for his own safety, because I must look absolutely fucking mental right now.

"Jean…" he begins, and I sense the tremble in his voice. I peer back over my shoulder at him, chewing the inside of my cheek again. From the look on his face, I can tell what he's thinking. That's a lot of information I've just gone and mouthed off that I haven't told many people. And I haven't told him even once about the Eren thing, or the dad thing.

But I didn't come up here to make this about me. I don't know exactly why I'm doing this this way… I don't know him all that well, and he doesn't know much about me in return.

No, scratch that, I do. _I do_ know why I'm doing this. Somewhere along the line I started caring about him. If I was to pinpoint a date on it… yeah, that time he returned my shirt and complimented by drawings for the first time. That was the time I decided I wanted to be this guy's friend. I wanted to get to know him better.

And if someone coulda done the same thing for me… well, let's not go there.

"Your turn, Freckles," I grin – and I hope my smile doesn't seem as forced as the one he's been sporting lately. I gesture widely to the vast expanse of open space before us. Marco blanches, and I think he shakes his head ever so slightly. Maybe I'm pushing this a bit too much. Especially with the possibly insane shouting.

"I can back off a bit, if you like?" I ask. "And if you don't want to, you know… shout like a maniac, I kinda get that. But… it sure feels good."

"… You're crazy, you know that?"

"You only just noticed?" I snort, rolling my tongue inside my mouth out of habit. Marco's arms are folding tightly across his chest again, and he's pinching the skin at his elbows nervously. I decide to give him some breathing room, and turn heel back towards the van. I'm just about to scoot myself up onto the hood, when Marco speaks again.

"But really brave too."

I literally feel my heart crash into the roof of my mouth, and I whip around to look at him again. He's bright red, and not looking at me, but there's that dazzling smile again, and…. _Oh boy_.

"Brave?" I dare to question.

He turns his back to me, looking out on the view again – maybe it's easier to talk when there's no eye contact.

"Yeah, brave. All of what you just said. That was brave, Jean."

I wriggle up onto the hood, and rest my back against the windscreen, like I'm accustomed to doing whenever I come here. The white paint means the metal doesn't scorch my legs, just radiates a gentle heat that doesn't quite boil me alive.

"Well, it's your turn now, alright," I say back, my eyes still intent on his back. "Take as long as you like. Just make sure you think about whatever it is really hard, if you're not gonna shout. I won't judge."

Marco nudges a couple of stones and a cloud of dirt over the edge, and his shoulders seem to drop as he does. I try to imagine the look of concentration that must be on his face as I stare up at the cloudless blue sky. I need a cigarette. It feels like it would fit the moment. Shame I left my last packet on my desk at home.

Marco doesn't budge from that spot for a good half an hour, but I'm okay just watching his shoulders rise and fall with each breath, imagining the taste of smoke in my lungs, and enjoying the hum of the CD still playing in the van's stereo. I can't really make out the words, but the melody is enough to make me feel peaceful.

Like many other times, I add this moment to the Jean list of things-worth-remembering. Maybe because I know that when I get home, I probably won't feel this quiet for a long while. I know I'm gonna have to deal with dad. And with my own frustration at my passiveness. But maybe I'm pinning this moment to mind for other reasons.

"Marco," I call, gently at first. "You done yet, man?"

He looks back over his shoulder at me, and for some reason, I feel like I shouldn't be looking at him. Like he's still involved in something private that I don't really deserve to be part of. But he smiles, and it's that fucking smile that makes all the worries in the world go away at once.

"Sorry Jean," he says, "I guess I got a bit lost in the view." He takes one last look at sun-drenched Trost, and then makes his way over towards me. I scoot over on the hood to make room for him, and pat the patch beside me. When he pulls himself up next to me, I breathe in the smell of camomile, delicate and earthy – would it be super creepy to say it's like an aphrodisiac? Probably. I don't care at this moment.

I'm the first to break the silence.

"I'm really sorry about Sunday, by the way," I say. Marco turns his head to look at me questioningly. "I was a real douche. I shoulda realised something was up. I kinda did, as well. I could hear it in your voice on the phone. But I still called you over to sort out that thing with the damn dog. That was a real dick move."

Marco sighs, and sinks down the windshield. The way he slumps looks unusual on him – not so Mr. Perfect, I guess.

"You don't need to apologise, Jean." I feel he wants to say more, and _I_ want him to say more, but he just leaves it at that.

"Fuck the world, huh?" I whisper. What comes from Marco is a tired, but amused snort of laughter.

"Fuck the world," he repeats. I can't help but grin at that, and lean back too, my shoulder resting against his as we both gaze up at the great big blue.

I'm not sure how long we sit there like that – that's the thing about this place, it has a tendency to just absorb time like a sponge. The sun gets lower in the sky, but it's still a ways off clipping the tops of any of the skyscrapers in the far distance. At some point, I feel the weight of Marco's head tip onto my shoulder, and I look down at his mess of black hair, his eyes closed. I briefly wonder if he's fallen asleep.

I find myself not minding either way, as it is.

"It's… been a tough couple of days," he then says quietly, and that does surprise me. I try not to let myself jump out of my skin too much.

"Are you still feeling sad?"

"… No. No, I don't think so. Not sad. A whole bunch of other things, sure. But not sad."

I murmur in agreement, in empathy, in I-don't-really-know-what, and settle into the feeling of his weight resting on my arm. A tune vibrates in my mouth, and maybe a word or two of the lyrics slip out.

_Hey now you're an All Star get your game on, go play  
Hey now you're a Rock Star get the show on get paid  
And all that glitters is gold  
Only shooting stars break the mold_

"... I told you the _Shrek_ soundtrack was great," he mumbles, but I think he's smiling.

"Oh shut up."

* * *

We leave the outlook around five, when I eventually admit that I do need to get home for dinner at some point. I decide against the _Shrek_ soundtrack on the way back, finding, this time, the silence much more companionable. Talk about an emotional moment to bring two people together – or whatever it is that the saying is.

We're winding back through the suburbs, Marco's driving a lot better than mine was, I have to confess, when he speaks up.

"Does it make you scared?"

I glance at him, but he doesn't take his eyes off the road. I notice how his grip tightens a little on the wheel, but then instantly loosens.

"Does what?"

This time he turns slightly to look at me. His eyes are friendly, understanding.

"Coming to terms with all that stuff you said up there. Does that scare you?"

I purse my lips and mull his words over. I wouldn't say scared, no. A little frustrated, angry, yeah. I think I'd say relieved, too, in a way. Finally just _admitting_ all the shit I have to deal with, and how much is absolutely fucking sucks. Yeah, I think relieved _is_ the right word.

I'm not given the chance to reply though.

"_You_ scare me."

I splutter a bit, sitting up a bit straighter in my seat.

"W-why?" I ask, before steeling my surprise, and resorting to humour, as per. "Is it because of the shouting? Yeah, I guess I probably looking in-fucking-sane. I'll give you that."

"No," Marco laughs, and it's genuine. That calms me down. "No, no it's not that." The turning for my road comes up on the right, and Marco glides into the right-hand lane, the indicator flashing on the dash board. The grey-slate roof of my house shortly comes into view as we pull onto the street, and Marco tucks the van in behind another car, a few feet away from the back-gate.

He turns in his seat to look at me, and I find myself unable to look anywhere but his eyes.

"I think I'm scared because I want to tell you things that I can't even tell myself." He pauses to examine my expression – which can't be much use, if I'm honest. "… How weird a thing is that to say?"

I narrow my eyes at him, but not in a frown, pursing my lips in a ridiculous fashion.

"… As weird as most of the stuff that tends to come out of your mouth, man."

I get the feeling he wants to tell me what's been going on his life – he's real close, and I can sense the fact that the words are there, on the tip of his tongue. I reckon I'm not the only one who knows what it's like being lonely and keeping stuff bottled up to yourself.

I make a decision then and there.

"Wait here," I instruct. "I'll be right back."

I unbuckle my seatbelt, and leap out of the van, vaulting over the back gate in the least-clumsy fashion I can manage (which is, of course, still pretty fucking clumsy, because this is me we're talking about). The back door is open, and my mom's reclining on one of the patio chairs, sipping a drink as I thunder across the lawn.

"Jean!" she exclaims, as I zip past her, into the house without stopping.

"Sorry mom!" I call back, halfway through the kitchen as it is. I bound up the stairs two at a time, and into my room, alarmingly out of breath.

_Right. Where is it?_

* * *

I tap on the window of the van, and mouth to Marco through the glass to wind it down so that I can pass him the large, A4 envelope in my hands. He does as commanded, and receives the package with a curious look passed between me and it.

"Don't open it here," I instruct him firmly – I am definitely blushing like an idiot here. Not even I can deny that. "You gotta wait till you get home, you got it?"

I wonder if Marco even has the slightest idea what I've just handed him, but he nods, and props the envelope on the empty passenger seat.

There's a moment of awkwardness, as I'm not sure what to say next, but I'm still leaning on the roof of the cabin, leaning in, with Marco looking up expectantly. I guess it shows on my face, because he goes and says something that just makes the whole situation ten times worse.

"I'm really glad you're my friend, Jean."

_Oh sweet merciful heavens._

"You're such a dork."

"I'll see you… tomorrow?"

"Right. Sure you will." I take a step away from the van, and press my hands deep into my pockets once more. "… I'll be waiting."

Nope, okay, _that_ was a dorky thing to say.

I don't stick around much after that, peeling back through the gate, with Marco's pleasant laugh resonating in my ears. Fuck, that makes me smile.

"Honey?" my mom asks as I near her again. I make a bee-line for the recliner next to her, and sink down into it gratefully. "What's up? Is something the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter."

"Oh, but you're _smiling_, Jean."

"_Mom_."

She chuckles to herself behind a sip of whatever she's drinking, and seems to settle down in her chair too, matching our positions. I roll my eyes, but the grin on my face doesn't even dare subside.

Well, it does. With the arrival of a text message.

**From: 815-XXX-XXX  
Jean! These drawings are amazing! I thought you'd have forgotten about that? I really don't know what to say :))))**

I literally feel myself blanch at the message on my screen, my stomach screwing itself up into all sorts of crazy-ass knots. Freckled bastard. I can still hear the thrum of his van's engine on the other side of the hedge.

**To: 815-XXX-XXX  
oh my fuckin god can u just leave already! this shit is fucking embarrassing**

**To: 815-XXX-XXX  
and if i see ur freckled face any time before tomorrow im gonna punch u ok**

Okay, so maybe I had finished those drawings I may or may not have promised Marco I'd do for him, that one time he came into my room. And I may or may not have just given them to him in that large, brown envelope. And I may or may not have included a post-it with my number scrawled on it as well. You know, all hypothetically speaking.

**From: 815-XXX-XXX  
Why did you give me your number? :D**

I literally want to face-palm myself right now, but I resist the urge, but only because I don't want my mom to ask any more awkward questions than absolutely necessary. I can feel her observing me from over the rim of her sunglasses as my eyes scan the text messages blipping through on my phone.

**To: 815-XXX-XXX  
uhm cos thats what friends do right? and like… if u feel like talking about… stuff well u got my number now so u can reach me easily**

**To: 815-XXX-XXX  
and i just thought it'd be nice ok but if ur gonna laugh at me then i promise iw ill change my number and probably elope to some foregin country nd thatll be the last u ever see of me u NERD**

**From: 815-XXX-XXX  
Thank you Jean :))))**

Fucking emoticons.

* * *

The stars are out that night. I mean, they're usually out – the sky's so clear in the summer in Trost – but tonight I actually care to look at them.

I smoke lazily, because it doesn't hurt, and I don't need to rush of the nicotine, or the burn of the hot smoke. I guess I just need something to do with my mouth – because let's face it, the alternative is going to be grinning like an idiot however hard I try not to.

I check my phone, the screen lighting up the dark around me, but there are no new messages. But it doesn't surprise me; one-thirty in the morning and I'd hope Marco be in bed. I use the moment to change his entry in my contacts to something more appropriate than just a number.

I look forward to tomorrow, simply for the fact that I know he'll be smiling when he walks through the back gate.

I really like looking at that smile. I don't hurt so much anymore.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:** Sorry it's taken so long for such a wishy-washy chapter ... I've been busy studying for my finals, and I've had some creative block. (Apparently writing happy scenes is too hard for me!) Saying that, I'm not 100% happy with the final scene ... feels a little clumsy. But the aftermath is going to be better. Can't wait to get stuck into what's going to happen next chapter. Things will start moving quicker from here on out, now that we've reached the first plot point (finally!) - and also seeing as Jean and Marco's friendship seems to be firm now. It's going to get fun (and I still promise Erwin in speedos ok).

I need to shout out to the five (?) pieces of fan art I've received since the last chapter! When I went 'round to my friend's to watch Eurovision the other week, I found a new one, and I genuinely freaked her out with all my squealing and crying. (Yes, crying ...) Oh, and speaking of which, spot the Eurovision reference! I really liked the French entry ... why did it only get 2 points?!

**Chapter Seven:** Hotel California

* * *

I could list the things I'm not very good at, but trust me when I say that would take a hell of a long time.

I could tell you that I'm really bad at going to bed on time, or making a pack of cigarettes last longer than a week, or putting my clothes in my laundry hamper after I've worn them. That I'm really bad at being honest with myself, even if I can lay it straight when I'm talking to anyone else. That when it comes to mushy shit like _feelings_, I'd much rather run for the hills, than look a person in the eye for more than five seconds.

That I'm especially bad at dealing with awkward situations.

But like I said, this list could go on for a _really_ long time.

Unfortunately for me, I'm faced with what I would probably class as an awkward situation right now.

The sun is hot on the back of my neck, which really doesn't help when it feels like I could self-combust pretty much right now. I curl over the textbooks I have spread over the patio table, folding my hands over the back of my head as I let my forehead fall onto the diagram of some chemical mechanism I should really fucking know by now; I let out a low whine.

_Pull yourself together, you colossal embarrassment. Stop making such a big fucking deal out of nothing!_

I can tell myself this as much as I like, but it's not gonna shake the general feeling of being… well, _flustered_.

God damn it.

It's that feeling of anticipation that curls itself up inside your stomach – twisting your guts up, until you literally can't sit still for more than a moment 'cause you really feel like you might just baulk. Yeah, that's pretty much it.

To call this sort of thing an overreaction… well, that'd be the understatement of the century. I untwine my fingers, and run them through the mess of blonde hair on top of my head, breathing out through my nose forcefully. I sit up straight, and try to school myself into _not being an idiot_ – but I'm holding onto the edge of the table with definitely more force than necessary.

_Jesus-fucking-Christ, Jean. All you did was give him some drawings! _

Very true. All I technically did do was give Marco those drawings. But that doesn't stop me from imagining over and over again the moment when he'll walk into the yard, grinning like a happy little shit, and I'll undoubtedly screw up whatever I want to say, and make a fool of myself, and… and—

Okay, so technically it's not an awkward moment yet. But it's gonna be. I can feel that shit _in my bones_.

_Oh come on, it's not like you regret it… you'd still give them to him if you had to play it through again. Think about how happy he sounded in his texts. God._

Right. Let's think about this _rationally_, here. What should I say? Should I just, you know, play it cool – like it wasn't _the_ most dorky thing I could've done yesterday?

Oh God, it definitely was. I can't deny it. So, so, _so_ dorky. Kings of the dorks.

Considering the fact I'm having a mental back-and-forth between how smooth I felt yesterday, and how _not-smooth_ I feel now looking _back_ on yesterday, it's not a surprise I don't hear the back gate swing open, and rustle against the hedge.

I practically jump a mile into the air when a hand plants itself on my shoulder from out of thin air – my yelp of surprise is literally _the_ most emasculating thing that's ever come out of my mouth.

"Gaaaaah!" I spin around in my seat, throwing my hands up in the air. "M-Marco!"

The surprise on his face (from being screamed at, no doubt) quickly melts away into a gleeful – genuine – grin. He runs the hand that was on my shoulder through the hair that falls onto his forehead, scraping it back against his head.

"Sorry Jean," he chuckles, "It, uh… looked like you were having one hell of an internal debate there."

"I-I wasn't…" I mumble, flicking my gaze away from his face as I contort my mouth into disgruntled pout. "You, uh… you look happy today. Uh, I mean… like, happier than… yesterday?"

It's exactly as I feared. Someone please explain to me why exactly I was looking forward to… this? _Fucking tongue-tied_.

"Uh-huh," Marco smiles – but he doesn't say anymore, leaving his words hanging in the air between us. He wants me to broach the subject. I swear to God, I recall every single time I called your freckled Jesus, because _I see how it is_, deliberately making me want to suffer!

"Jean?" he asks – I whip my eyes back to meet his, as he taps one of his fingers on his cheeks. "You're looking a little bit red. You might be sunburned."

"I'm not sunburned," I mutter, twisting back around to glare at the words in my text book. Acid chlorides. Anhydrides. Esters. Carboxylic acids. _Look how much happier he looks today_.

Oh geez.

I expect him to shrug it off – with a laugh perhaps – and head back to the pool side to start working, with some smart-aleck comment at my expense. But that's not what happens. The chair beside me screeches across the concrete – Marco falls into it effortlessly, and rests his arms on the table top. His eyes don't leave my face.

I scowl – and it's obvious that I'm not doing that because of the Chemistry I'm pretending to read.

"I really did mean what I wrote in my text yesterday," he says softly. "Those drawings are amazing."

I can feel my ears getting increasingly hot, and I focus all my willpower into boring holes with my glare into the mass of black text on the page in front of me.

"… Aaand I can see you're embarrassed," he then adds, with a light chuckle. The chair creaks as he leans back in it; I catch him running a strand of hair between his thumb and forefinger. That's not his nervous quirk, I mentally note. That's his _I'm-thinking_ quirk.

"I'm not… embarrassed," I grumble hesitantly. "I'm just… not good with the… gushy crap, you know?" I add as an afterthought: "I'm glad you liked 'em."

The smile that lights up his face is not patronising, or pitiful of the fact that I have absolutely zero skill with words – it's just… well, I've taken to calling it a _Marco-smile_, haven't I? Or for lack of better word, I guess.

I get the impression he wants to say something else, but we're interrupted by the arrival of mom, teetering across the patio in her ankle-breakers, balancing two stacked tumblers in one hand, and a jug in the other.

"Oh, Marco!" she exclaims, "I didn't realise you were here already! Do you want something to drink?"

Marco slides to his feet, scooting the chair back from the table. I find myself pursing my lips together in a hard line.

"Oh, no, I'm alright," he smiles politely. "I should really get to work."

I turn back – properly – to my studying, aware of how my mom's still rabbiting on to Marco at the pool side, who's humouring her with awkward chuckles as usual. I manage to rescue the situation from continuing too long, by calling out to my mom that the lemonade she's holding is gonna get warm if she doesn't stop pestering Marco, and to put it down already.

Marco nods his head in my direction as a thank you, his eyes only briefly straying to watch my mom occupy the chair across the table from me. She unhooks her sunglasses from the scooping-neckline of her shirt, and relaxes into the recliner, assuming the best view of the pool boy. As per.

Below the table, I sneak out my phone, and type out a quick message with one hand, feigning interest in my work, as I flip the page of my book.

**To: Marco-Polo  
sorry about my mom**

I steal a glance across the yard as Marco obviously receives my message, his hand darting down to where his mobile vibrates in his pocket. He frowns a little, upon seeing the sender, and it seems like he almost moves to throw me a questioning look.

I quickly send another.

**To: Marco-Polo  
u looked like u wanted to say some more stuff when she interrupted lmao**

**From: Marco-Polo  
Are you seriously texting me across the yard, Jean?**

**To: Marco-Polo  
yes**

I look up at that, and see him struggling to repress a smirk with a bite of his lip. He's leaning on the pool net, tapping away at his phone – and he's lucky my mom is so attracted to him that she's gonna be unlikely to realise he's doing absolutely no work.

* * *

The next few days pass pretty smoothly – which is a blessing for me, considering the general hand of bad luck I've been receiving lately. I'm not subjected to any phone calls from my dad's office from girls my age, and I don't run into Eren the few times I make the drive to campus for revision classes.

I manage to persuade Marco to download Snap Chat to his phone – despite the fact he assures me that he doesn't really understand how to use apps – and particularly enjoy the first few awkward snaps of not-quite-getting-how-it-all-works.

It's Friday afternoon, and I'm sitting with Connie, Sasha and Historia in the library, when I get a particularly good one through on my phone. He's managed to snap a blurry selfie of himself pulling a horrified face, the figure of a woman over his shoulder, in nothing but a bikini, reclining on a pool-side deckchair. The caption reads: _Help! Another one!_

I try to stifle my laugh, preparing my reply, but apparently Sasha has ears like a bat.

"Something funny?" she asks – but I recognise that pure _evil_ glimmer in her eyes all too well.

"No," I reply curtly, probably too curtly, because she lunges across the table to try and grab my phone from my hands, sending most of her revision notes flying. Fortunately, I'm well prepared, and hoist it out of the way, pushing her face back with my free hand. Not this time! "Get lost, Sasha!"

She licks my hand, and I recoil away in disgust, wiping my palm up and down my jeans vigorously. "That's fucking gross!"

"Don't put your hand in my face then," she pouts, still half-lent across the table. Waiting for another chance. I know her too well. _I got this_.

I lean back on the legs of my chair, and, holding my phone as close to my chest as physically possible, manage to type out my reply: _i dont think my mom will wanna share lol_, accompanied by what I'm sure is a mega-attractive picture of my face, a handful of double-chins and a view up my nose included. Marco will have to deal with that. It's better than having Sasha get her hands on my phone again… it can only ever end badly.

"You've been attached to your phone all day, man," Connie remarks, his expression mimicking Sasha's. Mischievous. _Dangerous_. "Who ya' texting?"

"No-one," I scowl, hoping that my expression will scare them into not asking anymore questions. It doesn't work as I'd hoped.

"You're being suspiciously defensive, Jean," Sasha smirks, holding her chin between her thumb and index-finger. "Is she hot?"

"N-no! It's not –" I splutter. _Well, actually… _"Can you two not keep your noses out of my business for like, _two_ fucking seconds?"

"Gosh, you're so boring," Sasha groans, flopping back into her chair, and folding her arms across her chest. She glances around at the splay of paper all over the table – and floor – but doesn't move to clear it up.

I pull a face, wrinkling my nose in her direction, and aim to turn back to the books. I'm not prepared to be pounced on by a flying, bald monkey.

"Ahhh, fuck!" I shout, my arms flailing as I try to stop myself topping over in my precariously balanced chair. Connie – the little demon child – uses the opportunity to grabble my cell phone from my hand, squawking in victory. "Hey! Give that back you little shit!"

I'm not exactly sure what I'm sorry worried about him finding – it's just a lot of dumb back-and-forth between Marco and I, and a couple memos from my mom to pick up milk from the store on the way home – but _still_. These two jump at any opportunity.

Fortunately, I have a blue-eyed _angel_ looking out for me. Historia expertly pinches my phone from Connie's grip, and hits the lock button, the screen flashing back to black.

"Leave him alone, you two," she says, as sternly as she can. "We're in a library, remember?" I'm suddenly aware that every pair of eyes in the immediate area are trained on our table and… not looking particularly happy with us. _Whoops…_

I sink a little lower in my seat, gratefully accepting my phone back as Historia slides it across the table to me. It lights up with a new message as I take in my hand.

**From: Marco-Polo  
Wow, you're SO attractive, Jean :P**

I check to make sure neither Connie nor Sasha are watching me – sure enough, they're both bashfully nose-in-books, cowering under the glares coming their way – and sneak a reply.

**To: Marco-Polo  
not all of us can look like a freckled chris evans ill have u know**

I don't get a reply to that one – maybe calling out his shoulder-to-waist ratio of a Dorito is stepping over the mark a bit. Oh well. I tuck my cell back into the safety of my slacks' pocket, and return to my revision.

* * *

"I. Am. So. Bored." I can practically feel my brain turning to liquid mush and seeping out of my ears – there are only so many irregular verb conjugations one guy can take before he loses it. Why can't they all just work the same? It'd make my life a whole fucking lot easier.

"I thought you liked French?" Marco chuckles, swinging his pool net across the concrete slabs, and shaking it over one of the white-plastic buckets that always accompanies him. I lie back on the stairs of the pool hut, feeling the sharp edge of the stone cut into my back – but I can't be assed to move. I drop the open text book that I was holding over my face, shielding my eyes from the sun.

It's Saturday. Just a normal Saturday. Hot weather. Revision. Marco. It's become a routine. (Although I'm definitely more adverse to two of those things more than the other.)

"I never said I liked it," I groan, voice slightly muffled by the book covering my face. "'S just that I'm good at it, so it doesn't feel so much like a chore, ya' know? Still boring as hell."

"When are your exams?" Marco asks, his smile as unwavering as ever. I push the textbook forward a little, so that I can see him better over the top of the creased spine – but I don't quite have it in me to sit up.

"Start a week on Monday," I reply – I'm sure my enthusiasm just _radiates_ through. Marco sort of gives a noncommittal nod, before dunking the net back in the water, swirling it around in a figure of eight along the tiled floor. "I've got Chemistry and French the first week, and then the other three the week after. Fucking Philosophy is basically the last on the timetable – which is just my fucking luck. Sasha finishes on the tenth, and I'm not off till the _sixteenth_—"

"The sixteenth?" Marco cuts in, his tone laced with gentle surprise.

"Yeah," I sigh. The concrete is really making my butt go numb – I've been sitting out here ever since Marco pitched up at lunch time.

Marco mumbles something, and I don't quite catch it, but I recognise the look of could-be-sunburn but actually probably a blush, on his face.

"What d'ya say, sorry?"

His mouth forms a round o-shape when he realises I didn't hear him the first time, and he runs one of his hands through his undercut. I've noticed it's getting a bit long lately.

"Oh, uh – I said: the sixteenth is actually my birthday."

That makes me sit up, my French textbook falling down into my lap. I find myself grinning.

"Oh yeah? I'll have to get ya' something then." It briefly passes my mind that I probably could've held onto those drawings from the other week for such an occasion as this, but… well, I guess I'll have to get more creative this time. It gives me a great sense of satisfaction to watch Marco's expression turn increasingly flustered.

"No, you don't have to!" he says quickly. "You have finals to study for, and I d-don't want you spending any money on me, Jean—"

Maybe it's still slightly weird in his mind that I'm telling _the pool guy_ that I want to at least celebrate his birthday somehow – but I'd like to hope we've passed that stage. Because in my head, it's definitely first: _friend_, and then consequently: _pool guy_.

"You're saying it like my family _doesn't_ have surplus amounts of cash to spend," I smirk crookedly. "It's not a problem, honestly. And you know me—" I pause for dramatic effect, putting my hands on my hips as best I can whilst sitting down. "I am the _king_ of procrastination. I'll get you something. Any excuse to blow off studying is good in my books."

"It looks like you're studying pretty hard to me," Marco chimes – nodding his head to the pile of notebooks at my side. I guess he's not entirely wrong. A lot of what I say _is_ bravado, I'm not gonna lie. I don't really want to fail these exams, however much it _would_ tick off my dad.

"If you tell anyone I'm _secretly a nerd_, I'll slit your kneecaps and mail you to Antarctica, you got me?" I grin, hoping my threat isn't too gruesome for his liking. Marco just throws his head back and laughs.

"Do you want to practice some French with me?" he then says, his smile pulled up as far as I reckon it'll go. His teeth are blindingly – perfectly – white (and I wouldn't expect any less).

"You don't speak French," I state, but he only shrugs.

"No," he agrees. "But maybe it'll help if you just speak it at me. That's how I used to practice speaking to patients – I would run through it with my mom, even if she didn't understand half the stuff I would say." He seems to look a little wistful at that, so I quickly jump in before he dwells too much on the bad stuff.

"Yeah, alright then," I say, adjusting my position a little, trying to get feeling back in my butt. "At least you won't be able to tell me that my accent sucks balls."

I start by explaining to him a bit about the general changes in French literature between the twentieth and twenty-first centuries – if ever there was a topic that would make you want to claw your eyes out in absolute _fucking_ boredom, it'd be this – but Marco just seems to settle into the sound of my Americanised accent, and it almost looks like he could be worlds away (which I wouldn't blame him for, because I'm sure it just sounds like garbled nonsense in his head).

I move on to talking about one of the case studies we'd looked at in class – some absolute BS about how Hugo and Dumas' books translate into modern France – but change my tone a bit, throwing in plentiful amounts of _merde _and _putain_, and even finishing off with a heartfelt _c'est vraiment des conneries_, but Marco doesn't take notice of any amount of swear words I dutifully insert into my monologue.

"Hé Marco, je pourrais dire quelque chose juste maitenant, et tu ne serais pas le réaliser." _Hey, Marco, I could be saying anything right now, and you wouldn't realise it._

He doesn't even notice when I obviously say his name. Wow. Well then, time to change tactics. I mean, being around Connie and Sasha kinda rubs off on you, right?

"Alors, combien de ménagères as-tu baisé?" _So how many housewives have you slept with?_

Still no bite.

"Je parie que tu aimes toute l'attention. Qui n'aime pas les femmes désespérées et d'âge moyen?" _I bet you secretly love the attention. Who doesn't love desperate, middle aged women?_

Okay, still nothing. How about this, then.

"Mais moi j'voulais une moustache, une moustache, une moustache." _That_ gets him to notice.

"Jean, I may not speak French, but I'm not stupid," he says – trying to sound stern, but failing pretty dismally. The laughter lines around his eyes are all creased up. "Why are you talking about moustaches?"

"It's a song," I grin back, hoping to look as positively shit-eatingly cheeky as possible. "It's called _Moustache_. Unsurprisingly."

"I doubt your examiner is going to give you many marks for writing down song lyrics about facial hair," he chuckles.

"There's always a first time."

Marco snorts loudly – it's a really unattractive sound, but I can't help but feel the burst of pride at making him laugh like that. I rock forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and my chin in my palms, watching him as he shakes his head at me, in amused disbelief.

"You're ridiculous, you know."

"Tell me something I _don't_ know, man."

* * *

"I'm going out of town 'till Friday," my dad announces at dinner on Sunday night. My mom props her cutlery down on her plate, and looks more surprised than I would like her to be.

"Again, honey?" she says, "This is the third time this month. You work yourself _too_ hard sometimes."

I awkwardly push the vegetables around my plate, forming a small tower of peas that I don't feel like eating (and it's not just because I'm not a fan of the green stuff). I have a sinking feeling in my stomach that this trip might not _just_ be business.

I can feel the words forming in my stomach – the things that I want to just stand up and shout at that fat, old man sitting at the other end of the table. But… you don't just need words to be able to do that. You need courage. I _don't_ have that.

"And I went and did a shop this week too, because I thought you'd be home," my mom continues to moan, a pout on her bright-red lips. "All that wasted food."

"We can just freeze it, mom," I mutter – neither of them even turn to look at me; I wonder if they even heard me speak. Not that it really matters. The tower of peas topples, and I lose one over the side of my plate. I sigh.

"I can't help it, Céline," my dad replies courtly, "It's a busy part of the financial year, you know that. Lots of complicated contracts to sign that you wouldn't understand, honey." The way he talks to her makes me feel uneasy – how his voice is laced with patronisation, how he talks to her like she's an idiot. I've started to notice that recently.

My mom seems disheartened, and she takes a sip of her wine, not pressing the conversation any further. I decide to try my luck.

"I was thinking of maybe doing a study session sometime this week, mom," I lie. I hadn't actually. But I want to take her mind (or more likely, my mind) off what my dad's just said. "If that's cool, I mean? It would solve the problem of having food go to waste if I had a couple friends over."

It works a treat.

"Oh, that sounds like a lovely idea, darling," she coos. That placates me a little. "It was so lovely to see Connie and Sasha back again the other week. Of course they can come around."

I probably didn't even need to mention the studying thing – my mom would agree to anything involving those two. My dad, on the other hand…

"As long as you'll be studying, Jean," he says sternly, gesturing at me with his fork. I stare him down as best I can. "I don't want you and your friends taking advantage of your mother and blowing off work. It's serious now. You've got to think about your future."

I'm not going to tell him that I've just made this whole scenario up on the spot, of course. That I don't actually plan on inviting hooligans number one and two around again until _after_ exams. But again, there's that spark of _you don't like this, so I'm gonna fucking well do it_ lodged in my system.

"'Course I'm thinking about my future, dad," I say, with a shrug. "I said we were gonna study, didn't I? So, like, _trust_ me for once." I hope he tastes the spite in my tone. I hope he picks up on how I stress the word _trust_. I hope he feels guilty.

* * *

I manage to catch my mom in the kitchen after dinner, once dad has crawled away to his study to "work". I help her load the dishwasher, holding each plate in my fingertips, as far away from myself as I can manage, to avoid touching the gross food-water dripping from the plastic trays. My mom just rolls her eyes, and hits the door closed with her hip once she's done.

"So what day do you think you'll have Connie and Sasha around then, darling?" she asks, wiping her hands on the dishtowel slung over the door of the oven - I just opt for wiping mine hurriedly on my jeans.

"…I wasn't actually thinking about Connie and Sasha," I say slowly, gaging her reaction. Her face seems to drop a little.

"Oh."

An idea suddenly pops into my head – and you know, fuck it, it's worth a try.

"I was, uh, thinking maybe someone else… maybe, you know, since dad'll not be here, we could see if… Marco… wanted to stay for dinner?"

In the half second that my mom stares dumbly at me as she processes what I've just asked her, I consider the two ways which this could go. The first, of course, is going to be nauseatingly enthusiastic agreement, because why _would_ mom ever pass up an opportunity to have Freckles inside the house? The second possibility is shock, because she might like ogling him, but inviting the pool boy in for dinner is a bit… well, probably not socially _customary_ in her books.

I kinda hope it's the first possibility, if I'm brutally honest. In fact, it's not really either.

"Marco…?"

I just stare blankly back at her, thinking: _yes, mom, you know, freckled version of Captain America, comes around twice a week, cleans the pool whilst you perv on his abs. That Marco_.

She obviously doesn't quite get it.

"You mean, Marco, our _pool boy_?"

"Yes, mom, _Marco_. The only Marco we know. So, how about it?"

There's a strange moment, because while I don't think she looks necessarily _confused_, she seems to look at me as if she contemplating something. But whatever the hell it is, she doesn't voice it.

"Sure," she simply says. "That sounds like a lovely idea, Jean. We can ask him about it on Wednesday when he's over."

"Nah, it's cool, I'll just text him now," I reply – and I feel like I ought to regret the way my face contorts into a smile, but I distinctly _don't_. I watch as my mom just quirks one of her finely-plucked eyebrows in my direction.

* * *

It takes me at least five attempts to write a text message that doesn't sound, firstly, too corny, or secondly, too much like I'm asking Marco out on a date or some shit. But eventually I settle for something on the right side of _whatever_, and hit send before I can change my mind.

**To: Marco-Polo  
hey man so my mom wants to know if u wanna come round for dinner this week sometime**

Actually, let's be real – he's _not_ gonna say yes if I tell him it's my mom's invite. I'd run in the opposite direction if it were me. I quickly send a follow up.

**To: Marco-Polo  
well actually it wasnt my moms idea it was mine but she said yes**

**To: Marco-Polo  
so what do u think**

**To: Marco-Polo  
ive got an xbox if that seals the deal any better**

**To: Marco-Polo  
we can play dead rising 3 its pretty cool**

**To: Marco-Polo  
i don't even know if ur into that sorry**

**To: Marco-Polo  
but u should come over anyway ok**

I frown at my phone screen, realising it definitely looks like I'm rambling. And I don't know why I would be. It's just Marco – it's not like I'm trying to ask Mikasa 'round for a date night (because trust me, I've tried before, and if you ever want a definition of a _smack down_…).

But fuck, I can't look away from my inbox – I hold my phone above my head as I lie on my back, on top of my duvet, staring at all the already-read mail. It doesn't take long for a reply to arrive, though. I click to open it as quickly as humanly possible.

**From: Marco-Polo  
I'd love to come over. :D**

I exhale a long, _long_ breath as my fingers whip over the touch-screen keyboard, rattling out a response.

**To: Marco-Polo  
cool which day is best for u**

**To: Marco-Polo  
and also what do u like to eat and stuff**

**From: Marco-Polo  
Wednesday works best for me. Maybe I can just stick around after cleaning the pool? And I eat basically everything. :D**

I text him back to tell him that's fine, and then drop my phone onto my chest with a satisfied huff. So yeah, not necessarily something I was planning on doing, but you know, I'm hella looking forward to this now. Spending quality time with the guy who may or may not have become the closest thing I've had to a best friend in a long time – and I'm not _really_ sure when that happened. But it's cool. I'll go with it.

* * *

_Of course_ the week has to drag by fucking slowly. On Monday, I spend most of the day at home, caught in the panic stage of _oh my fucking god I haven't learnt enough and the exam is next fucking week_, but on Tuesday and Wednesday, I feel slightly calmer, mainly due to the fact that if I'm screwed, Connie is _royally_ screwed.

We're sitting in the library, pouring through an old exam paper, and I'm getting increasingly frustrated at the fact he _still_ hasn't memorised the Taylor Series for Math.

"Jesus Christ, man," I groan, stabbing my finger into my note book in front of his face. "You just gotta learn the formula! You get stuck on this every time we do practice questions."

"I can't do it, I can't cram anything more into my head!" Connie wails, throwing his hands up in the air. The library is relatively empty this time around, and those who are still here are probably used to the general hysteria and mental-breakdowns that accompany exam period. I definitely am. This is the third time Connie's had a meltdown within the last _hour_.

My phone blips at that moment, reminding me to stop by the store on the way home to pick up some essentials for mom. It's already gone four – so time to leave Connie to wallow alone.

"Look man," I say, sweeping my mess of notes and papers into my rucksack. "I gotta scram. You better not leave until you've learned that formula though. I'll ring you up when I get home to check, if you're not careful."

"I hate you, Jean. But not as much as I hate Math."

* * *

It's five-thirty by the time I pull up to the driveway of the house – my Jag (a gratuitous present from my dad post-passing my test) purrs as I tuck in behind my mom's coupe, and kill the engine. The drive hadn't been bad – but the first store I hit was out of Marlboro's, meaning a detour one neighbourhood over to replenish my stock.

I sling my rucksack over one shoulder, and balance the bag of groceries on my hip as I struggle with opening the front door with one hand. I meet my mom as she's coming down the stairs, and I am genuinely surprised by the fact she's wearing flat sandals, rather than some ridiculous pair of stilettos, as per when Marco's around.

She greets me, and I follow her into the kitchen as she asks me the generic: _how was your day_ style questions. I offer her a couple careless grunts and _myehs_, my eyes instantly flicking out into the yard, where Marco's whistling to himself as he's packing up his equipment. I dump the brown paper bag of food on the counter top, and head straight for the back door.

"Yoooooo, Marco! Your favourite person is here, _and_ he brought food!"

He looks up, stops whistling, and a grin erupts on his face. I can't help but return it.

"I hope you're hungry, because we've got, like, a week's worth of food to eat!" I smile crookedly as he strides over. I slip back into the kitchen, and start unpacking the groceries which my mom is nosing over. I'm glad I slipped my cigarettes into my rucksack.

"You bought beer, Jean?" she frowns, gesturing at the six-pack at the bottom of the bag. "Who sold you that without an ID?" I shrug playfully, blowing my cheeks out as I rip off two cans from the cardboard sleeve.

"Yup," I say, watching as Marco slips off his flip-flops on the doormat, and steps onto the white-tiled floor, if a little hesitantly. I raise one of the cans towards him. "Hey, you want one?"

He doesn't really have much of a choice as I toss him one of the cans – he fumbles with it as he catches it, looking momentarily confused.

"It's just one," I smirk, pulling the tab on mine as I lean back against the counter. _To celebrate_.

Not that I'm sure what I'm celebrating, but it feels like I should be. Even if I'm bogged down in studying, and my exams are next week, and my dad's halfway across the state boning some twenty-year-old over his desk.

But I bought beer. I can't remember the last time I did that – let alone drink any sort of alcohol. I find my eyes on Marco as he takes a curious sip of his drink, and his eyebrows furrow at evident dislike for the bitter stuff. My lips curl up, and I chuckle.

"That better be just one for you as well, Jean," my mom instructs, pouting a little. As she flits across the kitchen, I pick up on the fact that she's not… well, swooning as usual. Sure, she gives Freckles a grateful once over, but…

"Is there anything you'd like me to help with, Mrs Kirschtein?" Marco then asks, and I frown. Damn you, _you saint_. Now I'm going to be roped in to help as well.

"Oh, that'd be lovely, Marco," she smiles. "If you and Jean could chop the veg, that'd be wonderful."

Marco seems perfectly fucking pleased at this development, but when he looks over at my grouchy face, he laughs, and rolls his eyes.

_Don't you roll your eyes at me, Freckles!_

I take a long draught of beer – it's just a bit too dry for my tastes, but it's still cool enough to be refreshing in the heat. I make a long arm for the knife block and the chopping boards, as Marco comes to join me – I elbow him roughly in the side when my mom's not looking, but he just jostles me playfully on the shoulder in return.

It turns out – alongside all the other stuff (like being smart enough to get into pre-med, and looking like a Greek God, and just being an all-round perfect person), Marco is super pro at cutting vegetables. He does it that professional way, dicing the onion into little cubes, and peeling potatoes in one, long strip. In comparison, I suck. Well, not even in comparison. Cooking was never really my forte.

"You're really making a mess of that," he chuckles, leaning over my shoulder to watch my haphazard chopping. He's so close that I feel his breath on my neck. I stiffen automatically.

"S-shut up," I shoot back, "'S not like I do this very often."

"No, _he doesn't_," my mom interrupts from the stove, waving a wooden spoon in our direction. "You're such a blessing to have around, Marco. You should move in _permanently_."

Marco's laugh is musical, and I debate whether or not I should stuff some potato peel down the back of his shirt in revenge. I don't though, but only because of the fact he tugs my chopping board away from me, and plucks the knife from my hands, his fingers gracing over my knuckles, and finishes chopping my half of the veg expertly. I take another gulp of my beer as I watch the way his hands move, and the way his face steels in concentration.

When he's done, I take our combined efforts and scrape them into the pan sizzling on the stove, and my mom allows us to leave. I firmly plant Marco's beer back in his hands, and nod for him to follow me.

"Your mom is really nice when she's not hitting on me," he says, when we're out of ear shot from the kitchen. I snort loudly, and take another swig of the dry stuff. The comfort of the couch in the living room is calling to me, but Marco's voice stops me halfway across the hall. "Oh— Jean, is this you?"

I twist around, and to my horror, find him pouring over some of the family photos strung up across the walls.

"No," I say automatically – though, of course it's obviously me. A particularly attractive one of chubby, three-year-old me sitting on my dad's knee at my birthday. I've asked mom to take it down multiple times, but she always makes an excuse. (I can think of _one hundred_ excuses why I don't want it up there, believe me.) "I mean, yeah, that's _me_, but stop looking at that crap Marco. Come _on_."

"I didn't realise your hair was naturally like that," he laughs, as I march back over to him, where he's gesturing at my fat little face. "You were so cute as a baby, Jean."

…

"Are you saying I'm not cute _now_?"

I regret the words the minute they come out my mouth.

_Jean, you may have just out-gayed yourself. Straight dudes don't ask stuff like that. Congrats._

"… Not with the face you're pulling now, you're not." Apparently the scowl on my face is enough to keep back the furious blush that I can feel crawling up the back of my neck.

Marco, on the other hand, seems embarrassed enough for the both of it. I literally hear the sound of him sucking air back into his mouth as he realises that he maybe shoulda thought his comeback through a little better.

_Not _now_, but…_

"Uh I… what I meant was –"

"I-it's cool, man, I got what you meant," I stutter, turning away from him. "It's cool. No homo. Come on."

He seems hesitant to follow me through to the living room, trailing behind as I collapse onto the couch, swinging my legs up onto the white cushions. Marco drops down onto the couch at my feet, squeezing his hands between his knees. He doesn't lean back, so I give him a dutiful kick in the thigh.

"Knock it off," I smirk. He seems to relax when he sees my smile.

A few more kicks in the side prompts him into talking – he asks me about how the studying's going, about how I'm feeling about which exams, all boring shit like that. He clasps and unclasps his hands repeatedly – and eventually I'm not even listening to what he's saying, simply watching how his fingers tense, how his rubs the skin at his knuckles too hard.

"Why are you nervous?"

"I, uh… I'm nervous?" he asks innocently. My mouth forms a tight line, and I haul myself up into a sitting position, using the back of the couch as leverage. I fold my arms around my knees, and shuffle forwards, a little closer.

"Obviously. You're wringing your hands like crazy. What's up?"

"I'm not, I just –" He breaks off when he meets my eyes, set into as firm a frown as I can manage. "I'm just, you know, wondering why…"

"Why what?"

"… You invited me 'round?"

Where did this come from, I wonder – because he was hella confident and perfectly okay with one-upping me in the kitchen back there. Did I say something that wasn't cool? Did I say something that made him doubt why I…

My train of thought circles back around to the fundamental question here: _why_, indeed? And I can't just say: yeah, my dad decided to go out of town to fuck some whores, and we needed someone to help us eat up all the food in the house. Even if that is true (which yeah, I guess it partially is), I get the feeling in my chest that's it's not the only reason.

"I dunno, man," I shrug, running a hand through my undercut, the short, dark hairs prickly against my hand. "I just thought you'd like to. Why d'ya ask?"

It's totally not like I want to spend time with you or anything. It's not like I'm _that_ pathetic that the minute someone shows vague interest in me, I latch onto them and do everything I can to get their attention… nooooo, not at all.

(Yeah, so this is the result of the last twelve months. Sorry Marco. Looks like you're stuck with me now.)

Marco sighs, and leans back into the sofa, slinking down and dropping his shoulders. He twiddles his thumbs in his lap, thinking.

"It's nothing," he says, his voice small. "Thank you, Jean. It's a nice excuse to get my mind off… other things."

I shuffle a little closer, wedging my toes under his legs – surprise crosses his face, but he doesn't move away from me.

"Other things?" No doubt he's alluding to the outlook incident. Just like then, I get the feeling that the things he wants to say are on the tip of his tongue. But neither of us get the chance to speak.

"Jean! Marco! Dinner's ready!"

My mom's got really good at interrupting moments just like this, when I think he's going to tell me something about himself. Way to go, mom. Way to go.

* * *

One of the main things I like about Marco, I've decided, is the fact that I don't have to be one-hundred-percent on edge when he's around. He knows how to talk to my mom without me cringing so hard I self-combust, he smiles when he should, he laughs politely, he doesn't _fill his plate to the size of a small mountain_ at dinner time (lookin' at you, Sash).

Across the table from him, I find myself absorbed in the way he holds his cutlery, the way he places his glass back down on the table top without it making a sound, and the way he doesn't slouch in the chair – like I do. I wriggle upright a little more, trying to mimic his posture, but I just feel like I'm trying too hard here.

_Wow, if mom even wanted a perfect son… he does this shit like he was born into it. _

I jolt back into the conversation when my mom brings up something about Marco's personal life.

"Nothing beats home cooked food, don't you think?" my mom laughs coyly, resting her chin in her palms, and batting her eyelashes at poor Freckles – apparently he just made the novice mistake of genuinely complimenting her cooking. "Do you cook much, at home?"

"Yeah, when I can," he replies, with a puppy-like, tilt of his head. _Stop trying to look endearing, you giant doofus_. "I usually cook dinner for my sister and me, because my mom works late quite often."

"Oh, that's charming," mom coos, "I do love a man who can cook. It's such an _attractive_ quality."

"Mom, I'm going to stop you right there," I interrupt quickly, gesturing at her with my fork. "Before you embarrass yourself. And _me_."

"Maybe if you helped with the cooking once in a while, Jean, I would praise you just the same," she shoots back – and okay, yeah, I get the slyness factor from her, I've got to admit. She turns her attention instantly back to Marco. "He could learn a thing of two from you, Marco, darling. Feel free to _rub off on him_ anytime."

"…M-Mom! You can't just say shit like that!" _And especially not with a straight face, oh my God!_

She stares at me, completely confused for a couple moments, whilst I watch Marco click with the innuendo and turn a brilliant shade of scarlet. He looks like he's just witness a cat being run over or some shit.

"Oh… oh, Jean! Get your head out of the gutter, for goodness sake! Do you see what I have to deal with here, Marco? I thought I brought him up to be a _nice_ young man." Marco just nods, practically boring holes in his empty plate, avoiding looking anywhere but our not-really-all-that-fancy china. I roll my tongue in my cheek and bite back a smirk, giving him a sharpish kick under the table.

The look he gives me as he bites his lip is one that pretty much screams: _please change the topic right now!_

I end up retelling the story of the time last week when Ymir dared Connie to go flirt with one of the lunch ladies in the cafeteria – my mom's scowl tells me that this is not sophisticated dinner conversation, but Marco laps my words up, and by the time I get to the part where we saw Connie vaulting across the lunch tables with a plastic-tray wielding murderess on his heels, my mom's smiling too, and she even chuckles when I tell her how Connie eventually returned some half an hour later, having been smacked upside the head with a dinner tray multiple times. The bruises were impressive.

If dad were here, I wouldn't have ever told a story like this. Not because he'd flip his shit, or anything like that. Just because… well, I can't really place the reason. Maybe because he'd probably just interrupt me half way through with some of the usual crap he spews. Or maybe because my mom wouldn't smile like she is now, and instead only nod along politely. Or simply because I don't feel like sharing things like this with _that man_. I feel like he doesn't deserve hearing it.

"I wonder how you ever get any work done sometimes, Jean," my mom sighs, rolling her eyes dramatically. I can't help the crooked smile plastered all across my face. "Right then. Who's going to be a gentleman and offer to do the washing up? I just got a fresh manicure and I don't want to ruin it already."

"No worries, Mrs Kirschtein, I'm sure Jean and I can stretch to doing that. You cooked us such a lovely dinner, after all."

Marco helps my mom gather the plates and glasses, and follows her towards the kitchen. Half way across the dining room, he looks back over his shoulder, because he realises I'm still sitting in my chair, brain dead, apparently.

"You coming, Jean?"

"Oh! Uh, yeah!"

I traipse into the kitchen after him, dragging my feet as I hear the splash of cutlery into the sink. A pretty pitiful groan-whine leaves my lips, causing my mom to remark.

"Won't cook, and definitely won't wash up," my mom laughs brashly, gesturing for Marco to dump the dirty plates on the draining board. "Such a bad son, isn't he?"

My pout is interrupted by the slightly-damp and definitely-gross dishcloth being flung in my face. I pull it away as fast as I can, holding the mangy thing at arms' length. Marco just laughs at my disgust.

"I'll wash, you dry, Jean."

* * *

When my mom finally leaves the room, accompanied by a glass (re: bottle) of wine, polite, perfect-son Marco goes straight out the window. Usually I'm happy to see him go, but not this time.

It starts with a splash of water on my forearm.

"Fuck man! Don't do that!" I exclaim, jumping back. I hurriedly wipe off the water on the leg of my pants, practically giving myself a friction burn in the process. Marco chuckles, and attempts to splash me again, but this time I jump back and glare at him.

"D-dude, no!"

"It's just water, Jean," he grins – my response is, simply, to tail-whip him in the butt with the towel in my hands.

"I don't fucking care! That's dishwater! I-it's hella gross!"

My attempt at drying-up is half-assed to say the least, but in my mind, that shit can dry itself on the draining board overnight just as well. I'm practically pulling Marco along by his shirt as he strains to turn the faucet off before I yank him out of reach.

"Still don't know why we couldn't use the fucking dishwasher…" I mutter under my breath.

I procure the Xbox from the TV in the living room, despite my mom's complaining that I'm in the way of the screen and disrupting whatever horrific show she's watching this time; I bundle all the cables and controllers up in my arms, and kick out with my leg to stop Marco from taking another step into the room and being ensnared, no doubt, by mom.

"Upstairs," I instruct, pushing past him, clutching my precious baby – I mean, the Xbox – as tight as I dare. (I've had reoccurring nightmares about dropping it on the wooden floor of the hallway, okay.) "Come on, move your freckled backside."

I use brute force to open the door to my room – Marco being zero help whatsoever as he trails behind me, absorbed in the embarrassing family photographs that line the walls of the stairwell. The TV in my room isn't nearly in the same ballpark at the fifty-inch downstairs; it's a dusty, old little crap-pot that I've had for as long as I can remember (it was the one I had when I still had a VCR), but it serves its purpose as something to play video games on. (Although it's probably about time to drop the hint to my dad that he should buy me a new one and get in my good books for this week.)

"Hey, you wanna choose some music or something?" I say over my shoulder to Marco, who's loitering in the doorway – I'm not sure why, because it's not like it's the first time he's been into my room before. I stretch behind the television, groping around for the multi-socket to plug in the console, and end up sneezing loudly as dust floods my nose. Nice to know the housekeeper does such a bang-up job. "There's a pile of stuff over there, so pick something out that you like."

Besides art, being a cynical asshole, and smoking cigarettes on my roof when my dad pisses me off too much, the one other thing I can probably say I love is music. Good music though – let's be clear about that. _Dead Kennedys, Ramones, The Clash, Guns 'n' Roses_… basically, if it's classic rock, I've got it on vinyl. Another use of my dad and his wallet.

"Woah, I've never seen so many," Marco remarks, going to crouch in front of the rack of ten-inch sleeves stacked up against my record player. He carefully picks out the album on the end, holding it in both hands as if it were the most fragile thing in the world, as he admires the cover art. "Aren't these really expensive?"

"Meh," I murmur, my hand finding the plug socket in the same instance. I pull back, and watch as the familiar white and green logo fizzles onto the screen. "My dad buys them for me. 'S not like he doesn't have the money."

_Might as well make some use of him_.

"I… I don't know half of these bands," Marco then admits, glancing back at me sheepishly, a different LP now in his hands. "Which one's good?"

"They're _all_ good," I retort, stretching for the controllers – god bless wireless, because untangling heaps of cables always pissed me the fuck off with the 360. "What one are you holding?"

Marco holds out the album in front of him, and reads the only word visible on the blue and black cover.

"_The Eagles_…?" he says, phrasing it like a question. "I don't think I know them."

"Sure you do," I shrug, before looking at his face. Nope, completely blank. "Jesus Christ, Marco! Do you live under a rock? Everyone knows _the Eagles_, man!" Well, apparently not _everyone_.

I crawl over to him, and pluck the vinyl from his hands, sliding the black disc out of the sheath, lift the dust-cover of my player, and clip the thing in.

"Consider this your musical education," I say, fiddling with the arm, until the familiar melodic twang of Don Felder's acoustic guitar echoes out across my room. "You'll know this one."

"Oh, yeah!" Recognition lights up his face as the troll of _on a dark desert highway_ kicks in. I beckon for him to join me in front of the TV. "Uh… how does it go? W-welcome to the Hotel California~"

"See, told ya'," I grin, dropping my less-preferred controller into his palms. (Everyone's got a favourite controller, right?) That just brings the confusion straight back to his freckled face.

"I… uh, I _also_ don't know how to play Xbox."

No good music, no video games – no wonder the most exciting thing he could think of to tell me, that one time, was that he played board games with his sister. Poor guy. Deprived childhood much.

_Right, Jean, it's up to you to show him what he missed out on. Your new mission. _

It turns out – like all over things involving this guy – that Marco is a fucking natural. Hand-eye coordination to boot. And coupled with my general bad luck and ability to die quite a lot of the time, of course.

"Beginner's luck!" he laughs bashfully, after the first match is over. I scowl at him, and stubbornly select the replay option. It's not beginner's luck. He kicks my butt on all six rounds that we play, _even_ when I switch up the terrain and upgrade my weapons.

"Oh fuck off," I groan, collapsing onto my back, flinging an arm across my face in defeat. "This is not fair. You can't be good at _everything_!"

"I'm not good at everything," he huffs playfully, even going as far to nudge me with his elbow. "Maybe you're just… _really bad_ at it, Jean."

_Oi. Uncalled for!_

"You did not just –" I reach up and grabble for one of the pillows on my bed, before launching it at his face. It hits him square in the jaw with a muffled _oomph_.

I brace myself for the onslaught, but it doesn't come – Marco just sits there staring at the pillow like it was some alien object that flew out of nowhere into his face. Worry crosses my mind for like, all of a millisecond, before I recognise that _wicked_ glint in his dark eyes.

_Fuck. _

He smacks me across the chest with the pillow – hard. I do my best to try to defend myself with my arms, but lying down is definitely _not_ the ideal position to be in when someone declares pillow war on you.

In between bludgeoning me to certain death, Marco's caught between grinning evilly and laughing.

"You don't pick a pillow fight with someone with siblings, Jean!" he basically cackles, pausing, holding the pillow above his head. "I've had years of practice. You really want to do this?"

"Okay, parlay, parlay!" I smirk, holding up my palms to him defensively. "You gotta at least give me a weapon to defend myself, man."

Marco's good side wins out, and he leans across me to grab the other pillow from my bed. And then I wish he really _hadn't_.

Close. Very close. Probably _too close_. Again, I'm overcome with the weirdly nice combination of camomile laundry detergent and chlorine.

_Chest in face! I should _not_ be turned on by that!_

Every muscle in my body stiffens, and I suck in a very deep, _very loud_ breath.

"Oh, sorry! Did I kneel on your fingers or something?" he quips innocently, dropping said pillow into my lap, and leaning back on his calves. I shake my head, wriggle up into a sitting position, and wrap my arms around the pillow.

_Jean, if you get another hard-on, I swear to God…_

"I need a cigarette," I murmur – Marco, sensing the mood has changed, scoots back into the place where he was, letting his pillow drop in the now-space between us. I keep my pillow clamped over myself as I lean for the drawer of my bedside table; pretty sure I have a couple cigarettes of my last packet left.

I don't like smoking inside – because my mom's bound to smell it – but you know what they say about nicotine killing the mood _down south_. Marco's big, brown doe-eyes aren't doing me any favours.

I feel the cardboard packet, and sure enough, the last two cigarettes. I press one between my lips, and offer one to Marco, out of courtesy, if anything. He doesn't really strike me as the type.

"You want?" I say, the cigarette in my mouth bobbing up and down as I talk. I feel his stare on my lips – no, on the cigarette, and I'm guessing he's not the happiest bunny. Ah.

"You smoke?" he asks hesitantly, as I tuck the unwanted cigarette behind my ear for safe keeping.

_Only when I'm stressed. Or mildly-freaking out_. But I don't say that, because I don't want to throw him that curveball. I just shrug as indifferently as I can.

"Yeah, you know, once in a while. You not keen?"

"No," he replies slowly, his eyebrows knitting together – and he still can't take his eyes off the white roll of tobacco between my lips. He's practically giving it a death glare. "… I was going to be a doctor, remember?"

"Oh, shit, yeah. Sorry man." _Ah, fuck, I really want to light it though._ "I keep trying to quit, I promise. Bit of a guilty pleasure, I guess."

I make a show of returning both cigarettes – and the lighter that was in my back pocket – to my nightstand. _Later_, I think.

* * *

Marco stays 'till around nine – and only leaves because he's reminded of the time when he gets a text message from his mom asking when he'll be home (and reminding him that he has to take his sister to school in the morning). I don't like the dawning feeling that this means I have to go back to the dreaded revision, seeing as I will no longer have someone to distract me by kicking my ass on Xbox or (unintentionally) insulting my music collection.

I walk with him to the back door, hands stuffed in my pockets as we slip quietly past the sound of mom's TV show. He slips his shoes back on, before turning back to me. I get the feeling he's trying to pick out what to say, and I feel like I'm watching the cogs whir in his mind. I decide to beat him to the punch.

"Thanks for coming, man. It was fun."

The draws out a smile – the perfect _Marco_ smile.

"Thank you for inviting me," he says. His voice is quiet, but not really because he's upset, or sad, or disappointed, or anything like that. It's more like… intimacy. (However _not_-straight that definitely sounds.) "I really had a good time. We should do this again."

* * *

"You know what I downloaded last night?"

"What?"

"_The Eagles'_ album."

I grin crookedly, feeling smugness radiating out of every pore. Well, that was a relatively easy task to convince Marco 'round to the correct musical allegiances. Success.

There's only one way to describe today. Hot as balls.

Not that balls are hot. It's a saying. You know.

Whatever. _I'm_ basically sweating _my_ balls off, even if I've got my jeans rolled up to my knees (maybe I should just bite the bullet and buy some shorts, fuck), and I've picked out one of the few tank tops I own to brave the heat wave. If I die of heat stroke, it's nice to know that I'll go out looking like a tool.

"I told you it was good," I chirp, gesturing at him with the chewed end of my pen, pushing my textbook off my lap, and onto the sizzling concrete of the pool shed steps. "And to think you ever doubted my music taste. What would you do without me, man?"

He wets his lips, and tilts his head to the side teasingly, as if edge me on into telling him: _indeed how miserable his life would be without me_.

"Well, you wouldn't be listening to that emo bullshit," I reason. "Are you living in two-thousand-and-eight, or something?"

He props the pool net up against the side of the pool, making sure that it doesn't slip into the water, and turns to face me, hands on his hips. He quirks an eyebrow.

"I sense some hostility towards _My Chemical Romance_, Jean."

"Oh yeah. They're crap." I run my tongue across my teeth as Marco takes a few steps towards me, his grin basically bouncing off of mine. He reaches for my wrist, and for some reason, I oblige him, as he pulls me to my feet. He seems to radiate warmth – but the sort of warmth I like, and not the sticky, gross sort of warmth like the weather has taken to subjecting us to so mercilessly lately.

_What is he…?_

He doesn't relinquish his hold, his fingers clasped tight, his palm a little warm, sweaty. His teeth are fucking blinding.

"Hmm, I think you'll regret saying that," he hums – and maybe I should've sensed the mischief in his tone – but I'm still so fucking blinded by his smile, so focussed on the grip he has on my forearm as he coaxes me a little further forward… "No-one insults _MCR_ around me and lives to tell the tale, Jean." Suddenly, he looks a little devilish.

"Well then, at least I'll be able to – hey, Marco, wait, what are you –"

I quickly realise what he's doing. He's pulling me towards the pool. Revenge for the other week.

_No. Shit._

"Hey, Marco, man, wait a second –"

He just laughs – but it's not music in my ears this time. It's not. It's like a shock of electricity through my system, and no, fuck, I don't want to go in the pool. Please. No.

"I told you I'd get you back! You're going in, whether you like it or not, Jean!"

The concrete of the pool side is baking hot on my bare feet.

"Just hang on a –"

"I take threats against _My Chemical Romance_ very seriously, believe me!"

He grip loosens, only for a second. His hands are on my back.

_No. Please!_

"Marco, wait!"

_Fuck. No. I can't! I'm scared of –_

He gives one sharp push. And I go headlong into the water.

It fills my lungs, as I gasp.

Surface, _surface_. Where's the surface? More water floods my system, stings my eyes, chokes me. Choking. Can't breathe. Where's the surface?

In the water there's just silence. A great, heavy weighted silence, and I want to scream, I want to thrash around, _I need to get out_.

Can't breathe. Can't breathe. _I'm going to drown_.

I find the surface, and I'm spluttering, shouting, crying out garbled nonsense, thrashing around to find the side. Where's the side? Where's the side. I need to get out. Now. Please. _I can't breathe_.

I can't breathe.

Somewhere, in the distance, Marco's shouting splits the panic – but just as quickly, the sound falls away, and there's just white noise. White noise that's all parts shrieking, and screaming, and all parts deafening quiet. All parts hot, all parts cold. Cold, _cold_. But it's burning in my throat.

In my mind, in the water around me, all I can see is Eren Jaeger's cocky little face, and his words, from _that_ time:

_How can you be scared of water, Jean?_


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:** The hiatus is over! /party poppers everywhere/

Poor Jean ... a roller coaster of a chapter for him! He's got a lot of demons ... and they're not just gonna go away, sadly. I did a lot of research before writing this chapter - mainly about panic attacks and aquaphobia, and dealing with both. it was very eye-opening, and I hope I've presented both realistically and respectfully. This has been a Jean-centric chapter. Next time will be a more Marco-centric chapter, in terms of what happens. His birthday is not going to go smoothly, I'll tell you that much. These poor boys. I'm horrid to them.

But this also means that Erwin in speedos will appear next chapter. That's something to look forward to, right?  
Please drop me lots of feedback! I live for comments like there's no tomorrow! Let me know what you like, what you hate, what you hope to happen! Ask me questions! I love you all... see you next time!

**Chapter Eight:** Rumours

* * *

_How can you be scared of water, Jean?_

There's Eren's face. It stretches out beyond the inside of my head – and I can see him floating in the water beside me, or hovering somewhere above the surface in front of me, or treading water behind me, his hands pressing down on my shoulders, pushing me _under_. The expression he wore – the ridicule, the sneer, I don't know what it was. But I can _see_ it now.

I'm shutting down. I can feel it – the plague of blackness stretching through my arms, coiling around my fingertips. I can't feel anything. Fuck.

My hands sweep through the water, finding nothing; suddenly it feels so thick, like oil, like blood – something horrible and gross, slicking my throat and pouring into my lungs.

I gasp for air, and the mouthful that I do get is spluttering, as I inhale a half gallon of water. The chlorine stings my eyes, and blurs my vision – not that I can see much anyway. Just water. So much fucking water.

I can't make any noise. I feel the sounds building up in my chest, but the water pushes them back, drowns them in my lungs. A watery gasp explodes from my mouth, as I try to kick my legs harder to keep my head above the surface. I can feel my knees, my hips locking up, a paralysing wave run through my system.

In that moment, my flailing hand comes down with a crack on warm concrete: the edge! _Thank fuck_!

My fingers grapple around the rough surface, and never have I desired the feeling of concrete lacerating my fingertips more. I haul myself up onto the sun-baked slab, and that's when I hear the shuddering wheeze for air that pours from my chest. I reach further, sinking my fingers into the grass beyond, the dirt caking itself beneath my nails, and pull myself further out – the only thought in my head: get out of the water.

My jeans are so heavy with water weight, so I just sort of flop my way onto the lawn like a drowning fish – which is, pretty much, what I am.

My heart beat is in my ears, my laboured breaths too, and the numbness in my limbs is turning into tingling, throbbing, shaking – like one thousand volts of electricity being shot into my body through my fingers and toes.

I press my face into the grass, inhaling the smell of dirt, squeezing my eyes shut, praying for it to just _stop_.

_Focus on breathing. Focus. Gotta breathe._

_Can't breathe._

The pressure on my chest is blinding, and I can see stars behind my eyelids. It's crushing. My shirt feels tight around my neck. There's a lump in my throat, and I can't push it back.

_Fuck. Help. _

I can't—

I try to push myself up, but I barely am able to get more than half a foot off the grass before my arms give out underneath me, and I face plant straight back into the earth with a feeble, choked cry.

Somewhere beneath the sloshing in my ears, and the palpitations thudding in my skull, I hear the muffled sound of my name.

"Jean…!"

The pressure on my shoulders is suddenly very warm and very real, and I'm being hauled upright.

_Ah, Marco … _

His face is right in front of mine, as he holds me at arm's length, roughly shaking my shoulders. He's freaking out. But I still can't quite hear him right. It's like he's shouting at me through feet of deep water still.

I feel detached. Kinda unreal. Like I'm floating, and watching this all play out from above. Except not really. Marco's eyes are definitely right there in front of mine.

Slowly, I look down at my hands, lying limply against my thighs, and raise one towards my face. I'm shaking like God knows what. Everything is trembling, almost vibrating, like I'm being electrocuted or something. It's not like I can even _feel_ I'm doing this. It's all beyond my control. I can't stop it.

I continue to stare at my palm, like it's the weirdest fucking thing I've ever seen, until Marco's freckled hand wraps around my wrist, and pushes my arm back down.

"Jean, look at me! Are you okay?!"

I open my mouth, but the lump is still there. Can't talk, can't _breathe_.

His hands are still on my shoulders, and I'm grateful, because it's the only thing anchoring me to reality. I can feel him trembling too, and I'm glad of it. He's definitely there.

"Jean, listen to me." He tries to steel his voice, but I can hear the shake in it too. "Jean, you're having a _panic attack_. I need you to do exactly what I tell you, okay?"

The noise that pushes up through my throat is a guttural choke, and I'm able to gasp for air again. It's as if it expels all the water from my system in one fell swoop. And suddenly I can _feel_ everything.

Something inside my stomach is doing jumps and flips and cartwheels, and punching me in the gut like I'm a fucking punch bag. It stretches out my lungs and pinches my heart, and I sweat.

"I … I can't breathe …!"

It doesn't even sound like my voice. I sound like a strangled cat. But it arouses panic in Marco's eyes. I wrap my hands around my stomach, and keel over on myself. If I hold on tight enough, _maybe_—

"Jean, Jean, you gotta sit upright," his voice booms in my ears, suddenly too loud. _Too loud_. I have the overwhelming urge to make myself very, very small. "Sit up straight for me, Jean – you need to open up your airways. You're going into shock."

It takes him prizing my arms a part for me to do as he says – but he manages to manhandle me into a better position, clamping my hands together on top of my head. I gladly tangle my fingers in the wet mop of my hair, and try to focus on the pain caused by pulling roughly at my roots.

The air floods my lungs easier. I gulp on it greedily, the oxygen hit making everything spin.

Marco's wide-eyed in front of me, practically sitting on my legs, the front of his shirt plastered to his skin from where he's grabbed me, and the water's soaked through the cornflower-blue fabric. I want to be closer to him. I want to feel his hands on my shoulders again. But at the same time, I want to run away as far as I can.

I'm still shaking, but I think it's subsiding. The cold ripples down my spine are not though. They're almost painful.

"Jean?" he asks tentatively. "Jean, are you okay?"

Every breath shudders. I try to concentrate on that: in, out, in out. Breathe. I can feel the hysteria coming back. _Come on, breathe. Focus_.

"Jean, I'm _so sorry_."

There it is. I kinda feel like I want to cry. Start blubbering, curl up into a ball, disappear into the ground.

Who's scared of water? What nineteen-year-old guy freaks out like—

It's pathetic. I'm pathetic. And _Marco_ …

"I'm so sorry, I should have realised when you— _oh God_, I'm such an idiot."

I want him to shut up. Now. But I still can't find my voice. I can only shiver as he starts apologising profusely, trying to comfort me with near-touches on my arms and shoulders, his hands flailing all the while.

_Stop apologising. Please. Please, this is all because of—_

"J-Jean, you're shivering like crazy."

Oh. So I am. But my head feels like it's on fucking fire. Burning up. The hot creep of sweat rolls in waves up the back of my neck.

"You need to change out of those clothes, Jean. L-let me help you inside."

The first words that roll out of my mouth sound just as cold as he thinks I am.

"I can do it myself."

His face is bad. It really fucking stings. It says: _oh God, I really have fucked up this time._

No, _you haven't_. It's me that's fucked up, you idiot. I'm pathetic. I'm useless.

I find strength in my legs that I shouldn't have – the quivers that rip through my muscles have me fearing I might collapse at any moment. But I manage to stand. Just.

I stagger across the lawn, one hand fisted in wet denim, practically hauling my leg forward with each step I attempt to take.

_Don't fall over. Don't. You gotta walk. Focus._

Despite that, I'm not sure how I get inside, or how I make it up the stairs to my room. But here I am, standing with my forehead pressed against my door, my hands balled up at my sides, my body shaking from head to toe.

Here comes the break down.

I grit my teeth to try and stop the humiliating sobs, but they come anyway – they force their way out between my grinding teeth as ugly hiccups. I slam my head into the wood grain again and again.

_Stop it! Fucking stop it! _

I pray to hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs, to feel Marco's fingers curl 'round shoulders again. But it doesn't happen. He doesn't follow me into the house – to comfort me, to tell me that it's okay to freak out like this when you're scared, that my babyish behaviour is fucking justified. Shit. It's not fucking _justified_.

Obviously he knows that. Obviously I know that.

Weak. Pathetic. Useless.

* * *

I strip outta my clothes in a state of numbness. The shaking subsides, but nothing replaces it. Nothing.

I peel off my t-shirt like it's a second skin, and fling it into my hamper. It misses, landing in a squelching pile on the floor. I throw my jeans in the same direction, and my boxers too. I crawl into my bed, and burrito myself up in my duvet, despite the heat, despite the sweat that's slick on my neck and in the small of my back – I burrow down, nestling my nose in the smell of unwashed duvet. I inhale deeply. Need to get the smell of chlorine out of my head. The feel of water wrapped around my arms and legs. The sound of sloshing inside my ears.

Just the thought has my heart ricocheting around in my chest. I try my best at a deep, steadying breath. It's pretty dismal.

The hours pass slowly, I guess, but I don't budge. I don't think I have even enough energy left to roll out of bed. I stay committed to my feathery cocoon. It feels safe. Secure.

I don't know if Marco's still down there, if he's waiting for me to come back – but he doesn't come after me. I feel the tingle of a strange hope when the landing creaks, but the sharp knock at my door is not him. It's mom.

I grunt loudly, and she pokes her head around the door.

"Jean, honey?" He voice sounds tentative. "I've been calling you for dinner for the past ten minutes. Are you alright, sweetheart?"

_No, mom. I'm really not_.

She doesn't mention Marco. I guess he's left. Don't blame him. 'S what happened the last time I freaked out like this, after all. Except that was more than just one person.

I let out another troubled groan from my duvet mountain. Her heels click on my wooden floor, and I feel the side of the mattress sag as she perches beside me. I make the effort to at least wriggle my head out of the safety of my fort. I stare blearily up at her face, and she frowns.

"You look awful," she admits.

_Thanks mom. Tell me something I don't know_.

"I feel like shit," I murmur. She presses her palm to my forehead, and I even see a crease form on her Botoxed forehead. Amazing.

"You're burning up, Jean. You shouldn't be bundled up like that in this weather. If you've got a fever, you need to cool down. Do you want to run a cold bath?"

Possibly the worst thing she could've suggested. I groan a little, and try to kick off the duvet. It just seems to tangle in my calves, so she helps me with it.

"I'll put some dinner aside for you, okay, sweetheart? Just close your eyes and try to get a little rest. We don't want you getting sick this close to your exams."

Ah yes, of course. The prerogative. I kinda want to cry.

* * *

When I close my eyes, there's only Eren. I remember the feel of his fist in my shirt – or was it _my_ fist in _his_ shirt? Breathing down his neck, sharp words pressed out between sharper teeth as a hiss … and then there's Armin's face, and Historia's face, and Connie and Sasha's faces.

_How can you be scared of water, Jean?_

Under his breath, he'd said that, with a biting laugh.

_I'm not scared of water, I'm just— I'm just—_

That time I'd seen red. This time, it'd been black, seeping into the corners of my eyes. In a way, that was worse. The numbness. At least hitting Eren, I'd felt something, got the fear out of my system through the sicking crack of his nose against my knuckles …

I screw my eyes shut tighter still – maybe I can squeeze out all these bad images, maybe I can … I feel the urge to press my pillow over my face and scream into it.

I don't know when I fall asleep – hours or minutes later, I really don't know. But my consciousness just drips steadily through the cracks into my dreams – or nightmares, I guess – and I struggle against the feel of water licking my calves, or Eren's mocking tone, and of Marco's face.

* * *

I don't know what really happens to Sunday. It just … passes. My mom comes to check on me a couple times throughout the day – that I'm aware of, at least – checking my temperature, and attempting to spoon feed me some fucking horrific aniseed-flavoured gloop. I just about manage to shove her away with a bleary-eyed grunt, and bury my head back in the pillow with a _whomph_.

I feel tired. Like really fucking tired. I drift between unconscious and nearly-unconscious, but that's not a great thing, seeing as even a day later, I really don't want to close my eyes.

The third time my mom ventures up to my room, I'm sprawled sideways across my mattress, forearm flung across my eyes.

"Hey sweetheart," she says, forcing a disgusting smile. "Your dad was asking where you were at dinner, so I told him you'd been up all night studying, and were sleeping it off."

I mentally thank her for getting the pig-man off my back. I couldn't have dealt with him marching his obese backside in here and demanding why I wasn't at the books for my Chemistry exam tomorrow. Shouting at me for wallowing away for … for what? I don't know. It's the empty thing again.

"I made you a sandwich, so please eat it if you think you're up for it." I hear the clink of china on the bedside table, and the shuffling of stuff being pushed around. My stomach growls loudly at the thought of food … haven't eaten since breakfast yesterday, and that was only a pretty pitiful slice of toast.

I wriggle myself up into a sitting position against my headboard; looking at my mom, I can see my pitiful state basically reflected in the look in her eyes. She tries to supress it, but …

"Mom…" I rack my brain for words. Something like: _it's okay, I'm dealing with it. Don't worry about it_. But I'm tongue-tied. So, I just offer a menial: "Thanks."

Her smile is small and sad on her bright red lips, and she reaches across to ruffle her manicured fingers through my bed-hair lovingly, before getting to her feet, with a creak of her joints. Half out the door, she briefly turns back to face me.

"Your phone was ringing a lot earlier, sweetheart. Did you get back to them?"

I frown. Apparently I'd blocked out any memory of my phone ringing whatsoever. I haven't even heard the _tring_ of my message tone in two days. My mom lets the door shut gently, and I make a long arm for my Samsung.

The screen lights up with one of those things you never really want to see.

**Unread messages: 15  
Missed calls: 4**

It's up there in the panic-stations of "we need to talk". But I literally have no memory of receiving any of these.

It's not a surprise really, that they're all basically from Marco. There's a couple from a number I don't recognise, but the first text in the thread reads:

**From: 899-XXX-XXX  
Hey Jean it's Bert! Marco asked me to ask you to text him back, when you have time :) Hope everything's alright!**

That's bad enough. I decide against doing the probably-sensible-thing of opening up Marco's own messages. I leave them unread, and fling my phone across the room.

Fuck this.

* * *

To call Monday horrific is a seriously gross fucking understatement. All the Chemistry I'd crammed into my head over the past few weeks has flown the nest, and I'm left staring blankly down at a half-answered paper for three hours, seriously hating myself.

I curl my fingers around the back of my neck, and bury my head between my elbows, praying that something – anything – will come to mind. It's like, I can _see_ the pages of my notes in my mind, but I can't pick any of the information out of them.

_Focus. Come on. You gotta push through this, you pathetic excuse for a man_.

Not so good. I'm still tapping my biro on the side of the desk erratically when the invigilator calls time on the exam session.

I totally fucked that one over.

I avoid talking to any of my classmates as I slither through the crowds outside the exam hall – too many people animatedly discussing their answers for part _this_ and question _that_, and I feel sick to my gut.

I'm just mapping the quickest route to a bathroom when I'm pounced on from behind, arms wrapping around my neck in what's basically a strangle hold. I instantly freeze.

"Jeeeean!" Sasha squeals in my ear. I take a deep, shuddering breath, and try to force myself to relax. "How was it!? We just got out of Theatre! And it went super, duper well!"

I force a smile onto my face – but can't help but think it's gotta look painfully forced. I want to feel happy for them – even if they only started working on their theatre piece like two weeks ago, and by all means it shoulda been shit for the amount of work they didn't put into it – but hearing someone else's glee at how an assessment went just irks me the wrong fucking way.

I guess Connie picks up on this, as he strolls over, and tugs Sasha off my back by her ponytail.

"Leave the guy alone, Sash," he instructs, and Sasha pouts. "Not go so well, man?"

"You could say that," I mutter darkly, threading my fingers through my hair restlessly. "My dad's gonna have my balls."

"Tch, I bet it didn't go that bad," Connie smirks, but his face drops when he sees that does absolutely nothing to cheer me up. I probably look like a walking zombie, judging by the purple eye bags I spotted on myself in the mirror this morning. "W-well, you didn't want to do Chem next year anyway, did you?"

I don't reply to that; just shrug, nod in the direction to the parking lot, and start walking, expecting them to keep up. Sasha involves Connie in some excited discussion about the fact she only has two exams left, or some BS like that, and Connie nods along, although I'm pretty sure I can feel his eyes scanning my hunched back as I stalk a step or two ahead of them.

The parking lot is a lot emptier than usual – always is during finals week, when people are only coming in for exams and shit. So what's weird is the fact that, of all the empty lots, someone's gone and parked right up next to my Jag.

I don't pick up, straight away, that that's a white van I definitely know.

"Hey, isn't that pool boy?" Sasha grins, slapping me on the shoulder, and pointing towards my car. I follow the line of her index finger, and yeah, sure enough, there's Marco perched on the hood of his van, scrolling through something on his phone. His usually open face is kinda twisted into a scowl. Doesn't suit him.

"What's he doing here?" she continues, amidst my blocky train of thought. "Does he go to uni here too?"

I feel a whole bunch of things at this point. Wary. Confused. Still really fucking tired.

Sasha is practically vibrating at my side, tugging me by the arm towards my Jag. Yeah, like hell, Sash.

"Guys, can you—"

Sasha looks up at me with puppy-dog eyes from beneath her thick fringe, but Connie catches on, for once.

"Hey Sash, the truck's over this way, come on." He takes her hand as he says that, and widens his eyes expectantly, trying to tell her to leave me the hell alone via his expression. "My mom was baking cookies today, so we need to get home ASAP before they're all gone."

That does the trick, and with a reassuring slap on my back from Connie, they're gone, chattering their way across the lot to where Connie's beat-up truck is poorly abandoned.

I turn back to face my Jag, the van, and Marco. He still hasn't noticed me here, still nose-deep in whatever's got his interest on his phone. I find myself taking a really dramatic gulp of air, and balling my fists up a couple times at my sides. My feet are taking steps forward before I even finish mentally bigging myself up to do this.

The thing is though – and this is a pretty fucking important thing – is that he's _here_. Still here. Came to… find me? _That_. It's not like what happened _last time_. I try to remind myself of that with every step.

I'm only about six feet away from the van's hood when Marco finally looks up at the sound of my footsteps. He all but drops his phone as he springs to his feet, and covers the distance between us in three rapid strides.

"J-Jean!"

"H-hey man," I say gingerly, staring hard at the concrete, scuffing my shoe in the dirt. "What you doing here?"

He genuinely scoffs and shakes his head at me.

"Are you kidding me, Jean?" he says sternly – I don't think I've heard him take a tone like that before. I feel like I want to shrink, crawl under one of the cars, be eaten up by the ground… something. "Why haven't you replied to any of my texts or calls? Are you alright? I was freaking out all weekend."

_Oh_.

Oh.

"I'm fine, I'm fine man," I lie through my teeth, forcing that same smile. It's a pretty pathetic attempt though, because I literally can't raise my eyes high enough to look the guy in the eye. "Honestly, I-I'm fine."

I hate the sound of the tremble in my voice, because it's weak. And I'm weak. And I want so badly to just tell him: no, I'm not okay. I want someone to make it better. _I want you to make it better, Marco._

It doesn't matter. He's obviously not fooled by my lie.

I don't know why his face looks… well, kinda shocked, for a split second. What's he surprised at? That I'd lie to him like that? That I'm trying my best not to be a disgusting, snivelling wreck of a person? Jesus, Marco. This is _me_ we're talking about.

"I-I mean, who the hell freaks out like that over _water_," I chuckle bitterly – the sound is hollow and broken in my throat. "W-what a joke, right?"

I'm taken a back when he reaches out, and cups his hand around the top of my arm, his thumb rubbing back and forth across my shoulder. I feel like I want to recoil from the touch, and you know, just freak the hell out some more, _why not_, but at the same time …

His hand is warm, and makes my skin tingle. In a good way.

I snivel loudly, snorting all the snot and crap back up my nose with an unattractive hack.

_Fuck, no, come on Jean. Not here_.

I grind the heels of my palms into my eyes forcefully. Not here. Not gonna cry. Not gonna be a—

"You know…" Marco's voice is quiet, gentle, and most importantly, _soothing_. I feel his hand clench a little tighter on my bicep. "You… you don't have to lie to me. It's okay if you… you know… I don't want it to have to be… _like that_ between us, Jean. You know I wouldn't judge you."

"… Fuck."

If he says one more thing, I'm gonna— I'm definitely gonna …

"I won't judge you," he repeats. Ah, there we go. Last nail in the coffin. My palms are suddenly wet, and I growl, rubbing harder and harder at my eye sockets to wipe away the pathetic tears.

Marco's hand leaves my arm for a second, and I hear the sound of him heaving open the passenger-side door of the van, before he touches me again – this time him hand firmly pressed between my shoulder blades as he guides me forward. His voice is close to my ear as I keep scrubbing at my eyes.

"Sit in the van," he instructs calmly. "It's more private."

I semi-fall into the passenger seat, snivelling wreck and all, as Marco hops over the hood gracefully, and comes about the driver's side. He slips behind the wheel, and turns to me – earnest and sincere. I can count every freckle on his face then. Dang. His freckle game is strong today.

"You didn't have to…" I start gruffly, my voice sounding really rough as I try to blink back the redness in my eyes and the lump in my throat. "You didn't have to drive out here b-because of this. I-it's my fucking mess."

"Doesn't matter."

"But don't you think I'm—"

"No."

_I didn't even say anything! _

I open my mouth to tell him that I wouldn't be surprised if he thought I was a basket-case or some shit, but he interrupts me again.

"Whatever you're about to say Jean – and I know you're about to say something, because I can see it in your face – stop it. Don't say it. I don't want to hear it."

That shuts me up good and fine.

I shuffle around awkwardly, and end up drawing my feet up onto the seat, resting my chin on my knees, blowing out my cheeks. I sniff for good measure.

"What _do_ you want me to say then," I say in a quiet voice.

He rests one arm on the top of the wheel, and with the other hand, he runs his fingers through his hair, sweeping the dark strands back against his scalp – but they all jump back into place anyway.

"Tell me what happened," he says, with a soft quirk of his lips and a tilt of his head. "Tell me what you need to say to make yourself feel better. I don't mind."

Tch. What I need to feel better. If I knew _that_, I'd be on it like Sasha on a fridge, man.

There's no better. There's only _less worse_.

I hug my knees tighter against my chest, and press my nose into the dark denim of my jeans.

"I'm not letting you leave this van until you talk to me, by the way," Marco adds as an afterthought. I roll my eyes, but at least they're feeling a little bit drier now.

"Dunno what to say."

"Well… start from the top." _Easier said than done, Marco_. "Have you, you know… always been like… that?" _Like a baby around water, you mean? Just say it_.

I study the fibres in my jeans for some time, following with my eyes the way each thread weaves under and over all the others. I even begin tracing the pattern with my finger, but Marco doesn't budge, doesn't say a word, just watches.

A voice pipes up from somewhere deep – real deep – inside my head. I like to call that place: _good ideas_. I don't visit there too often.

_You're just going to end up pushing him away, if you don't say anything. Remember what happened last time. You've only just started getting your friends back from that, and that was some damn good luck. This guy is the best friend you've had in all your fucking life. You push him away, and I bet you you'll end up living in that duvet burrito of yours for the rest of your pitiful life_.

Hate everything.

Except Marco.

So I tell him. I tell him everything. Achievement unlocked: tragic backstory. Yep.

I tell him about the first time I went to the beach with my parents, when I was three, and screamed for hours after my dad decided it would be funny to dunk me in the sea. I tell him about the time when I was eight and I was walking the neighbour's dog for some easy cash from old Mr Reeves, and it pulled me into the stream chasing a fucking squirrel. I'd sat on the bank and sobbed until it got dark. I tell him about what happened with Eren last summer.

Everything.

* * *

It was April, end of the second semester of twelfth grade. First heat wave of the year. Three days of hitting upwards of seventy-five degrees. Approximately six thousand mosquitos in your face every time you even _thought_ about taking a step outside.

Connie's parents were getting rid of their weird, stand-alone outdoor pool, which they'd had since approximately the dawn of time. Apparently it was ruining the back yard being there, and they wanted the grass to grow back, or something – to be honest, I don't really remember exactly what the reasoning was for deciding to send the thing to the dumpster.

But that's not the point. The point was, that when Connie invited everyone round to his place after school, they all jumped at the chance to use the old pool for the last time before it became trash-bound.

I wasn't keen. Of course I wasn't. I was pretty good at slinking out of going to the pool usually. But Connie had slapped me on the back, and Sasha had persuaded me with some lame-ass joke, and I had shrugged and thought: _hey, I don't have to swim. It'll be fine._

Connie's house was built by the old guy who owned the place before his family had moved in – it's kinda old-looking, the paint around the windows has peeled so badly that you'd think the slightest gust of wind would dislodge them, and some of the panelling around the back of the garage would see better days even if it was rotting – but the good thing, the main selling point, for us at least, was the fact that Connie's bedroom looks out on the roof awning that was ideal jumping distance above the old pool.

I'd seen the others do it before – I'd sit on the awning with a cigarette, and laugh as Eren belly flopped into the water below, or admire Mikasa in her swimsuit perform a perfect double tuck into a cannonball. It was cool. I could deal with that. As long as I never got wet.

We'd all bailed out of the back of Connie's pick-up and my Jag, the others making headway immediately for the drainpipe that was the best way up to the awning (without climbing out through Connie's window). I'd trailed behind, listening to Eren proclaim that he was gonna beat everyone with the _majesty of his cannonball_ or some crap like that. I'd been craving a cigarette all day, but the guy at the Seven-Eleven had refused to sell to me that morning without an ID, so I was without a fix. I shoulda seen that as a bad omen at the time.

I must've watched half a dozen repeats of painful belly flops, before Eren, on his fifth or six time scaling back up the roof, mid-argument with Connie, had said the damning words.

"No, I totally won that one! The only person who hasn't jumped yet is Horseface!"

I'd looked up from studying the roof tiles upon hearing my totally-favourite nickname pass the shithead's mouth. I hadn't quite caught the whole conversation, but I got the gist of it, Eren edging his way across the slope of the roof towards me, dripping water all over the black slate. I automatically shuffled away, but he'd reached out a hand to grab a fistful of my shoulder.

"Come on Kirschstein, you haven't jumped yet!"

I jerked my shoulder away from his grip, but he'd held tight, looking back over _his_ shoulder with a huge grin at Connie.

"Yeah, come on Jean! You gotta show him how it's done!" Connie had said. You woulda thought, after knowing me so long, Connie would have noticed, before that moment on the roof top, that he'd never seen me swim. But Connie… well, he's never been the sharpest tool in the box.

"N-no I definitely _don't_ need to!" I'd protested loudly, giving Eren a dutiful shove. "Piss off already, Eren."

It all happened very quickly, but very slowly at the same time. I remember him pushing me towards the edge of the roof awning, his hands gripping my shoulders. I remember digging my heels into the tiles. I remember yanking at his hands to let go, to leave me the fuck alone, to: _Eren, stop_!

I remember taking a step forward as I staggered, but there being no more roof to stand on.

The jump down from the roof into the pool wasn't far – like, six feet at most. But that fall felt long.

It hurt when I hit the water – I sorta went in shoulder-first, and the smack of the surface against my arm and my neck stunned me. Even worse was the sudden weight of Eren jumping in after me with a loud whoop, his bony ass crashing down on my back and slamming me against the pool floor.

With my cheek pressed against the slimy blue surface, I'd gasped – and then all the stale water had shot up my nose and down the back of my throat, sharp and stinging, like sandpaper at the back of my mouth.

We'd surfaced at the same time – Eren laughing wildly, smacking his hands in the water, throwing up waves as I'd hauled myself over the edge, landing with a _splat_ on the muddy grass on the other side.

The sky had been real blue that day – no clouds, save for the jet stream of a plane dividing in half the view above me as I lay on my back, stunned, winded, and numb. But that feeling hadn't lasted.

Water had splattered across my face as Eren heaved himself over the side too, bringing with him apparently half an ocean soaked in his trunks. The blue of the sky had been so quickly replaced by _red_.

Reactions are either flight or fight.

* * *

"So what did you do to him?" Marco asks softly. I realise I've balled my fists in the bottom of my shirt, and that my knuckles are white, and that I'm trembling with… anger? Fear? I don't know. But the energy is rippling through my system, tearing up my veins. I pinch my eyes shut, and exhale sharply out my nose.

"I hit him. A lot. I broke his nose, his collarbone, two of his ribs."

"Oh."

I glance up at Marco, and see his face is pained. I hate that. I don't want him to realise what a fuck-up I am. What a stupid thing I did.

I don't want to tell him that I enjoyed the crack of Eren's nose on my knuckles, at that time. But equally: the feeling of Sasha's arms wrapped around my shoulders, shouting in my ear, telling me: _enough, Jean_! I enjoyed that too, because I'd felt the cool hand of control sweep back over me, if only for a moment.

"I fucked-up," I murmur. Marco doesn't agree or disagree with me. "I fucked-up so bad. You know what happened after that? They stopped talking to me. For a year. Couldn't blame them. I fucked-up so bad, and it's all because of my fucking stupid—"

_And I'd stopped talking to them_, I remind myself pointedly. Of course they wouldn't have wanted to put up with someone so fucking _unhinged_ at the sight of _water_.

I ruined everything because of a fear of water that I should've grown out of when I was five. I am literally the _worst_ excuse for a person.

"I'm pathetic," I mutter. "And I understand if you've… had enough, Marco. I'm a proper basket-case, I get it, it's cool."

"Jean."

"No, Marco, seriously. I get it. I beat the shit out of the guy. That's messed up. Like, what if the others hadn't been there to stop me? Like, what if—"

_Don't, Marco. You don't… you don't understand_. _You can't, I mean—_

"Jean, listen to me." Quiet, patient and _understanding_. That's Marco. Fuck what I just thought. One look in his dark eyes, and it's the feeling that everything I hate is just melting away. "I want you to stop giving people – stop giving _your fear_ – the power to control your worth, your attitude… your _smile_. Seriously. It's okay to feel weak, believe me. But you're not. You're _strong_."

The moment kinda reminds me of one of those diabolical chic-flick romance movies – dare I even say it – when the heroine suddenly looks at the love-interest as if she's seeing him, for who he is for the first time, sparkles and floating rose petals included. This is like that, just without the cherry blossoms.

I feel like I'm seeing him for the first time?

"You're the worst," I mutter gruffly, smearing the back of my wrist across my eyes. I feel like something's been dislodged in my chest, some stuffy lump of guilt and pain and fear that's been stopping me from breathing for a long time – longer than just two days ago, for sure. I think a small smile piques my lips.

"W-why am I the worst?"

"Because you're so fucking nice, man. It should be illegal to be this nice."

Illegal to be this _perfect_. Jesus Christ, how does he know _exactly_ what to say? I've been dealing with this for nineteen fucking years, and _I_ still haven't figured out what to do. He gets it right in two shitty days.

Marco shrugs meekly, and does the thing where he pinches a strand of his black hair and rubs it between his thumb and forefinger. His cheeks grow a little red.

"You helped me out w-when I was having a rough time, Jean. I-I wanted to do the same… for you."

I let out a breathy laugh, and shake my head. I think back over the last year – the loneliest and most miserable year of my life – and I think: _why… why did I have to meet you now, Marco? Why couldn't it have been then. I could've used someone like you a lot._

_Where were you the last twelve months when I had no-one?_

I realise I want to hug him. Hug him a lot, and be sappy, and press my nose into his shoulder, and not let go. Gross things like that.

But I have to let that smile he holds for me be enough right now. I don't hug him.

* * *

We sit in the cabin of Marco's van for a long time (just talking, mainly, but even the silences that happen are comfortable enough) – the only reason I'm even _persuaded_ to leave is the text from my mom worried about the fact I haven't come home and may or may not have offed myself after a disastrous exam. I drop her a quick text back, informing her that I'm still very much alive and haven't actually thrown myself off a bridge.

"You wanna come by for dinner?" I ask Marco, sliding my phone back into my pocket. "My dad's out again, and I think mom's making cobbler for dessert. It's usually pretty good."

Marc runs a hand through his undercut awkwardly.

"I can't. I, uh… I kind of, well, I pushed back one of my appointments today so I could catch you after your exam, and well… still gotta go do that."

Oh boy, the warm feeling that spreads through my chest (despite being turned down) is stifling. I bite back a smile at the thought of Marco skipping work to come find me. It makes me feel good. Real good.

It might be selfish, but the feeling of being prioritised… fuck, I could get used to that, okay.

"Bummer."

Marco laughs as I clamber out of the van, and press the door shut. He quickly winds down the window as I lean back on the roof to say good bye.

"Text me when you get home," he says.

"Will do."

"Text me before your French exam as well. And after it."

"Okay."

"I'll see you, Jean."

"See you, Marco."

* * *

I text him when I get home. It's the first thing I do when I kick off my shoes at the front door, my mom rounding the corner when she hears the commotion.

"There you are!" she exclaims. She's got oven gloves slung over her shoulder, and her hair is up in a loose ponytail. She looks freakishly domestic. Freakishly _mom-like_. "I was really worried about you, Jean!"

"Sorry mom." I quickly send off the message, watching the screen until the "sent" appears beneath my few words. "I ran into Marco after the exam. We got talking."

"Oh." She seems to look me up and down, actual frown lines appearing on her forehead. Hasn't had an injection in a while, I guess. "So you're feeling better?"

One conversation is not going to change what happened. And it's not gonna change the fact that I'm not going to get over this thing easily. But yes. I feel better. A whole fucking lot better.

* * *

"Apparently one in every ten adults suffers from some sort of aquaphobia."

Marco phones me around ten that night – the ring tone surprises me at first, because I'm just lying on my bed, dozing, the exhaustion from the last two days suddenly having caught up with me in one massive tidal wave. But when I see the caller ID, I can't pick up quick enough.

"W-what?" I practically squeak.

"That's a lot more than you'd expect, right? It's quite a common thing. I'm reading about it now."

"You're reading about it?" My voice goes a little higher than I'd like it to. Marco just laughs, and I can hear the click of a computer keyboard from his end of the line.

"Uh-huh. I just found this really good article on _Health Central_ actually. It's talking about ways to overcome it. There's some good stuff here!"

I gulp loudly, and hope the sound doesn't travel across the line.

"… You're stupid."

"And I'll gladly keep being stupid," he replies, without missing a beat. Idiot.

He reads the article out to me, despite me telling him that he's being, well, kinda ridiculous. It doesn't deter him. He tells me that he wants to help me. Get me standing in the pool, get me swimming, get me "confident". (Whatever that even means.)

I keep telling him he's stupid, but he just keeps on laughing every time I say that. I wish I was as determined as he is.

It's two-in-the-morning before we finally give up – and by that point I'm laughing too at all the crazy things he's suggesting. He tells me goodbye with a yawn that I can hear coming through a smile.

"Sleep well, Jean."

He hangs up first, and I toss my phone onto the night stand, and flip the switch on my lamp. The room plunges into darkness – minus the ever present glow from the streetlamps outside, of course. So, it's sort of a perpetual orange blackness. I'm used to it though.

My phone blips beside me, just as my head hits the pillow. I grab it, and there's one new mail in my inbox.

**From: Marco-Polo  
I really did mean the thing about helping you out, Jean. I hope you own swim trunks! :D**

I roll my eyes, and just reply with an emoticon appropriate of my level of: _oh really?_As I click send, I scroll back up in the thread, to the tirade of messages he'd sent, that I still haven't read, from yesterday.

The words pull my heart right up into my fucking mouth.

**From: Marco-Polo  
Jean! Are you okay? I don't know what to do, so text me back please!**

**From: Marco-Polo  
Are you okay?**

From: Marco-Polo  
Please just let me know you're okay.

**From: Marco-Polo  
Hey, I'm really worried about you, Jean. Please text me.**

**From: Marco-Polo  
I rang, but you didn't pick up. I'll try again later.**

**From: Marco-Polo  
All I'm asking for is just a word, Jean.**

**From: Marco-Polo  
Bert should've texted you, just in case you're not getting my texts or something. I'll try ringing again.**

**From: Marco-Polo  
Jean, I'm so sorry.**

**From: Marco-Polo  
I was such an idiot, and I'm so sorry. I understand if you're ignoring me because you're mad.**

**From: Marco-Polo  
Jean, you're my best friend. I really hope I haven't ruined everything. I'm so sorry. Please text me. **

I scowl, and can only wonder at what must've been going through his head whilst I was wasting away in my bed for two days straight. I must've put him through some serious shit. I feel the guilt coiling up as a pain in my gut, and it makes me wince.

_As usual, you fucked-up. You owe him, Jean_.

* * *

I have my first French paper on the Wednesday that week – which kinda sucks a bit, because it means no chance to hang out with Marco. It's made extra bad by the fact I really want to… apologise to him in person for being a little shit before.

It goes a lot better than the Chemistry on Monday – maybe or maybe not because of the ridiculously insipid smiley response I get from Marco to the text I send him just before going into the exam hall. Dumbass.

I think it'd be even safe to say that I breeze through the paper. French, I can do. I even feel confident enough to join in the debate, at the end, about what people wrote for each question, glad to offer my humble opinion on the multiple choice.

Glancing at my phone to check the time, I notice the little message icon in the top left corner.

**From: Marco-Polo  
Just finished at your house… hope everything went great! **

I quickly whip out a reply whilst still riding the high of confidence.

**To: Marco-Polo  
answered all the questions fine so thats a start**

**To: Marco-Polo  
but yeah it went prtty good so **

My phone blips just seconds later.

**From: Marco-Polo  
Awesome! I'm super happy for you, Jean!**

I have to excuse myself (re: slink away) from the crowd, to go grin stupidly to myself in the parking lot.

* * *

Coming out of my French speaking exam on the Friday, I run into Connie, Sasha and Ymir leant against Ymir's _death trap_ – I mean, minivan. It's a monster of a machine, and that's not in a good way. A nineteen-eighty-nine Dodge Caravan Turbo is never gonna win a beauty award to begin with, but its maroon paint job, and a carpet practically made out of compressed beer cans does it absolutely zero favours. Ymir swears by it though.

"Hey Jean!" Ymir calls, waving at me over Connie and Sasha's heads. "You alright?"

I've decided I like Ymir. She definitely has the best taste in music out of our circle of friends. And you gotta stick together with people like her when you associate with morons who entertain ideas of Nicki Minaj or Katy Perry. Shudder.

"Hey," I greet them casually, strolling up behind Sasha, and giving her a flick on the back of the head. "What you guys still doing here? And what are you doing here full stop, Connie?"

"Waiting for the bae," Ymir grins wolfishly, and I shoot her an _are you serious_ look at her use of cringe-worthy slang. "Historia's got her Health exam."

"And Connie came to pick me up!" Sasha chimes in, slinging her arm around her boyfriend's neck. Connie beams proudly, and I roll my eyes. "Sasha has no master, Sasha is now a _free elf_!"

Oh right, it was her last exam today. Lucky shit.

"Aww, Jean, what's with that face?" she teases me, with an elbow to the rib cage. Ouch.

"Oh, I dunno, maybe some of us still have finals till next week?" I pout, rubbing my side and glaring at her far-too-happy demeanour. I still have the trials of Philosophy to face next week, geez.

"You guys need to stop complaining," Ymir cuts in, stabbing a freckled finger in our direction. "When you're sophomores, you'll be begging to go back to your first year exams. Believe me. I want to rip my brain out right now. I hate _everything_."

There's a call from across the parking lot, and we all look up, to see Historia waltzing quickly towards us, her blonde hair in a loose ponytail over one shoulder, shallow heels clicking on the tarmac, and a dazzling smile in place. Goddess.

"Except that," Ymir quickly adds, hand on her hip as she appraises her girlfriend. I'm gonna puke. "That, I like. Very much. Yep."

She greets her with a smattering of kisses that verge basically on the explicit, so I make a point to stare purposely at the concrete, until Historia manages to wriggle out of Ymir's bear-hug, and joins the group.

"Hi guys," she smiles, angelically. "Hi Jean. How did French go?"

"'S good," I shrug, kicking a loose pebble with the toe of my sneaker. "How'd yours go for you?"

"I think I wrote enough," she sparkles, swatting Ymir away as she tries to duck in for a sloppy kiss on the blonde's neck. "Ymir!"

"What?" she smirks, leaning her chin on Historia's shoulder, and nuzzling her. Get a room, guys.

"When do you finish, Historia?" Sasha then asks, and I'm drawn to the fact she and Connie are swinging their clasped hands between themselves. Ah. The ultimate fifth wheel. That's me. All this affection is gonna make me ill.

"Tuesday is my last," she chimes. "Same as Ymir."

"That's great! Connie and Jean finish Wednesday, so we should all go out after their Philosophy exam – there's a new bar on Rose Street that I really want to try—"

"Only because of the paninis you saw they sold," Connie adds.

"Maybe because of the paninis I saw they sold, yes."

"A drink would be a nice way to celebrate though," Historia agrees, and Ymir nods furiously (I've learned that she's basically an alcoholic with the amount of shitty beer she's seemingly always drinking).

"Wednesday doesn't work for me, guys."

All four of them turn to look at me as I say that – Sasha and Connie looking more affronted than surprised. Ymir judges me over the rim of the sunglasses that rest on the bridge of her freckled nose, for turning down booze.

"What? Why?" Sasha protests, puffing out her cheeks. "College is over, Jean! What do you have to do that's more important than getting plastered off your face, huh?"

Well, how do I say this in a way that isn't one-hundred percent super-awkward?

"'S Marco's birthday," I mutter below my breath – not sure if Sasha actually hears me, or is just far too happy at this development. She just screeches a loud and over-excited: "whaaaaaat?!"

"I said, it's Marco's birthday," I repeat, more forcefully, scratching the back of my head through my undercut awkwardly.

"Who's Marco?" Historia jumps in, clasping her hands in front of her expectantly. Oh no. Here we go. Freckled Jesus, save me. "And why haven't we met him, Jean?"

"Oh, _we've_ met him," Sasha boasts, grinning wickedly, waggling her eyebrows. "Veeeeery nice. Very nice indeed."

"Sasha!" Connie and I both shout at the same time, causing her to just throw back her head and laugh bellowingly.

"You dating him, Jean?" Ymir smirks, in between Sasha trying to placate Connie by pinching his cheeks and making baby-noises at him (why do I get a sense of déja-vu from this scenario?). I think I genuinely produce steam from my ears.

"N-no! Come on! He's my fucking pool boy, Jesus!"

"Pool boy? Kinky."

All I can manage is a defeated whine at that, and I pinch the bridge of my nose.

"Why don't you invite him out with us then, Jean?" Connie asks. (Which is a bit surprising, seeing as how openly appreciative Sasha has been about Marco's… appearance.)

"Nah, man, it's cool," I reply. I decide to ignore the jibes coming from Ymir about my sexuality, and Historia trying to shush her. "I, uh… I don't think he, you know, drinks that much. I dunno if he'd enjoy it."

_Also I'd rather keep him away from you lot after what happened last time. Don't want you corrupting nice, perfect Marco to your evil ways._

"Laaaaaame," Sasha sings. "You better not bail on us for the party too. Bring Marco. We'll sort out his drinking problem fine."

_Yeah, that's not a reassuring thing, Sash_.

I hadn't even thought about inviting Marco to that party, but actually… yeah, it would make it a whole lot more bearable for me. Especially if Eren's gonna be there. That's not too selfish a thing, is it? Plus, Bert and Reiner said they'd go, so it wouldn't be like I'd be the only one he'd be going there to hang out with…

"Jean?"

"Huh?"

"I just asked you want you're thinking of getting him," Historia smiles prettily, "for a gift." For someone who only just found out about this guy, she seems suspiciously invested already… hmm. Gonna have to keep an eye on this one. Might have a secret meddlesome streak like _Springles_ over there.

"I, uh…" There's no going back once you say it, Jean. "I was, uh… I'm making him a mixtape."

Connie and Sasha's attempts at concealing their laughter just end up with them both spewing spit all over me. Diiisgusting.

"Dude!" Connie exclaims, and then continues in a hushed whisper, "Isn't that a bit… you know, _lovey-dovey_?"

I feel blood creeping up into my face, and I feel really fucking warm. Don't say it like the thought hasn't already crossed my mind, Connie.

Of all people, it's Ymir who comes to my rescue.

"Hey guys, knock it off! I think that's a cool thing to give! _Someone_ has to educate everyone else with what music you lot should be listening to. That's the reason people are so dumb… One Direction kills brain cells. It's science." I watch as Historia rolls her eyes at that. "What you got so far, Jean?"

I shoot off a list of tracks I've already picked (I mean, it literally _stresses me out_ thinking about how much good music Marco hasn't listened to), and Ymir nods appreciatingly, and gives a reassuring hum at my choice of Fleetwood Mac songs – Connie and Sasha only groan dramatically.

"Don't listen to these losers, Jean," she grins. "They wouldn't know the greatest album of all time if _Rumours_ hit them square in the face. I mean, Connie has Nicki Minaj for his fucking ringtone. His opinion is irrelevant on all musical matters until the end of time."

Preach.

* * *

That Saturday is a weird day. It starts out weird because I may or may not be sleep deprived from staying up till two-in-the-morning transferring songs onto the CD for Marco (I thought an _actual_ tape might be a touch too outdated, even if he is a bit of grandpa at times).

Marco turns up around midday, and it's not a lie to say I'm literally pacing back and forth in the kitchen waiting for him to appear at the back gate. (I press my face to the window when he does, and the sight of him chuckling at my squished, turned-up nose against the glass makes me grin like a loser.)

I slip out the back door with a can of Coke for me, and a can of Dr. Pepper for him, and stride purposely across the grass as he dumps his equipment, 'til I'm about six feet from the pool edge. Then I freeze up.

Oh yeah. The pool.

I haven't really considered _that_ yet.

It's strange because I _want_ to take another step forward. I've sat around the pool all the time with Marco. Hell, I've even fucking knelt right on the edge that one time he fell in.

But here I am now, legs rooted to the ground, feeling like ice, or steel, or lead, or whatever else is distinctly _unmoveable_.

This shouldn't be happening. It's been a god damn _week_. So why is this stupid thing worse than it's ever been before? I can't fucking move.

I _don't_ want to go down this route again. Fuck.

You know the thing about Marco though, right? He always seems to know what to do. Like that time when he came 'round for dinner, and he was just _really good_ at being a guest. Or when he knew how to treat a concussion. Or how he knew exactly what to say to get me out of my flunk.

So he drops all his equipment without a second thought, and meets me halfway across the lawn. Now I'm looking at him, and not at the water that laps against the pool side. Some semblance of life feels like it returns to my limbs.

"Hey." Ah, the smile.

"H-hey. I, uh, I brought you a drink."

I hold out the Dr. Pepper can stiffly. He takes it, but his dark eyes are scanning my face – not really sure what he's looking for – but I can't find it in myself to really look him in the eye, so I focus my stare on… uh, his chest. (_Why_ does he have to be taller than me…?)

That polo shirt never really left much to the imagination, even when _dry_. (And with that thought, I can practically hear the cackling laughs of all my friends and Ymir's "well I told you so".)

Eyes _off_. Let's not got there, Jean. Things get suspiciously _gay_ whenever you go there.

"I missed you on Wednesday," he smiles. Perfectly innocently. But I fucking cringe. Say stuff like that, Marco, and you're actually giving those idiots at college some foundation for their fucking nonsense. Can we not.

"Y-yeah. Me too. Can't say French exam was my preferred way to spend the afternoon."

"If you ever want to swap and get solicited by fifty-year-old women, just let me know," he smirks. I scoff. "No, I'm kidding. You've got it worse, for sure, Jean." He pulls the tab on the can, and takes a grateful sip. His Adam's apple bobs up and down with each gulp.

Shouldn't be looking at that _either_.

* * *

His 2AM text that night says:

**From: Marco-Polo  
That was six feet away from the pool today. On Wednesday let's make it five! **

I drop my phone onto my face, and sigh. My smile is reluctant, but it's there.

* * *

European History, Math, and Philosophy are crammed _brutally_ into the first three days of the week. It's like they'd actually rather have students keel over in the middle of a paper, rather than actually pass it. History is okay. And if by okay, you actually mean genuine fear that my hand might fall off from writing so fucking much, then you're on the money.

Math is alright as well – I can barely keep my eyes open, but I manage to get myself through the paper well enough to think that my grade won't be bad enough for my dad to kick me out onto the street.

The same can't be said for Connie, though. I told him he needed to learn the Taylor series. (People need to listen to me more often.)

The second we step out of the exam hall, Connie literally collapses onto the ground, and presses his face into the concrete with a muffled scream.

"That bad, huh?" I chuckle dryly, nudging his leg with my foot. A couple people walking by us stare warily at the sight of a bald guy lying face-down on the path, and start talking in hushed tones to themselves.

"Huuuuuuuuuuuuuurghhhhh," comes Connie's reply. I think he's broken. The only appropriate thing to do is take a photo of his misfortune, and Snap Chat it to everyone in my contacts.

It takes a while to scrape his corpse off the concrete, but when I do, my stomach tells me that it's food time, and we head to the cafeteria, Connie swearing me to a pact to never talk about the Math exam ever again for as long as we live.

Armin's already beaten us out of Math to the cafeteria (not surprising after Connie's self-wallowing spectacle) – and he's sitting across from Ymir and Historia at our usual table. That's a bit weird. Armin's usually stuck to Eren and Mikasa like glue.

"Hey," Historia chirps – no doubt in extra good spirits because she and Ymir are now finished with damn finals. "How did the exam go?"

"'S alright," I shrug, and then remember Connie's pledge. "We, uh, we're not talking about it though." Connie nods furiously, and sulks into one of the hard plastic chairs. I slide into the one next to him, and make a long arm for the plate of fries in front of Ymir (she heartlessly slaps my hand away). That's when Armin pipes up.

"Oh Jean, Mikasa said that she was looking for you, by the way."

Curveball, much.

"Huh?"

"Yeah, she said it was something important."

What's this now? Has Mikasa finally realised her undying feelings for me and wishes to confess her love in front of all our friends?

Yeah, only in my _dreams_.

I can't remember the last time I swapped a word with Mikasa, let alone a conversation (that wasn't in some wish-fulfilment fantasy in my head). What the hell could she want?

I consider all the possible (and equally, _impossible_) reasons she could want to talk to me, whilst Connie and Ymir begin blabbing on about something to do with the end-of-the-year party Connie's planning.

"Yeah, so we hit a snag," I hear him say. "The 'rents said I can't have the house for this year, which… sucks."

"You're kidding?" Ymir complains loudly, craning her head back to glare at the ceiling. "That fucking blows."

"Is there anywhere else we could have it?" Historia asks.

"I dunno… Bert and Reiner have a pretty big place, but like… they don't know half you guys, so maybe that'd be a bit weird," Connie sighs. "The only other option is…"

There's some seriously unsubtle side-eyeing going on from him. I'm on to you, you little thug. Don't think you can blackmail me into _anything_.

"The only other option is what?" I say sharply, joining the conversation, and pushing Mikasa (unfortunately) to the back of my mind. "Out with it, you cheeky little shit."

"Well… your place is pretty big, Jean."

Before I can even begin to protest all the ways why that's never going to be a thing that will happen (what with my dad being an asshole, and my mom probably not being cool with us drinking, and having to be near the damn pool, and… and just _Eren_ in general), Connie begins spouting bullshit in the hope of changing my mind.

"Come on man, you've got the space, and the yard, and the _pool_. It'd be great. Please? Throw me a bone here."

My inner monologue makes an appearance in my head at that moment.

_You know, it's not a bad idea. Final patch up of all the things you ruined last year. Make yourself seem like a cool guy again. Not a guy who's gonna flip his shit or shun people for another twelve months because of some stupid fear._

But Eren. Do I really want Eren at my house? Do I want Eren, at my house, near a _pool_, with the probability of him _definitely_ bringing up what happened in a way I'd rather not be reminded of? That's a pretty easy _no way_.

_But what do you think would Marco do?_

Don't think about that. It's pretty obvious what freckled Jesus would do.

"Jean."

That's not Connie. Or Armin, Ymir or Historia. I whip 'round in my seat to see _Mikasa_ standing behind me. Damn. Someone that scary shouldn't be that hot.

"H-hey." Welp. What _is_ my voice. Get a grip, Jean. "What's up, Mi—"

That's when I see Eren, awkwardly loitering a few feet behind Mikasa, scraping his foot back and forth across the linoleum, glaring daggers at everything but me. Oh.

"Eren wanted to talk to you." Or you mean: _you_ wanted Eren to talk to me.

… Wait, _what_?

I stare at Mikasa dumbly as she tugs Eren forward by his sleeve, and everyone at the table is suddenly quiet. Can't blame them. All evidence of coherent thought has left my head too.

"Hey man."

_What, what, what, what, what_.

I don't reply. He gulps loudly, and awkwardly scratches his arm. Probably expects me to say something. He seems to steel his expression into something more determined. I'm still something like a deer in headlights.

"So, uh, I was thinking," he says, before turning to look at Mikasa for reassurance. "Do I really have to do this, Mikasa?"

She just nods sternly, crossing her arms across her chest. He grumbles something, but continues.

"Listen man. This… _thing_. It's been going on a real long time. And, well… I figured it'd be cool if we called it a truce, 'cus, uh…"

What is this trying to be? An apology? Why is he doing this? Who put him up to this? I feel distinctly cynical, and continue to stare him down. His eyes briefly flit to the floor, but he's too hard-headed to be put off by just me glaring at him. Never has been before.

"'Cus, uh… well, I miss when we all used to hang out, you know? And it sucks not sitting with everyone at lunch time, and avoiding each other in class. And it was really shitty of me to push you in the pool that time when you obviously didn't want to go in, and I'm sorry for whatever it was that freaked you out—" His words are coming out pretty quickly by this point, and he's stumbling over his sentences to try and get this done as sharpish as possible. But he manages to avoid mentioning the water thing right out. Which is surprising. 'Cus this is Eren, and he usually just says whatever comes to mind first. "And it was really _not cool_ of me."

_Not cool of you is damn fucking right_, I think. Eren looks to Mikasa, who gives him a small, rare smile in return, before he looks back down at me. Oh. I'm meant to say something. Shit.

"I, uh… so, we cool, man?" he offers, seeing as my brain-to-mouth function has apparently timed out. Maybe if I stare at him long enough, I'll be able to see through him. There's no way this can be a product of genuine regret, right? _Right_?

"Jean?" That's Connie, accompanied by a hefty stamp on my foot under the table. _Dude_! I shoot him a glare, but he just widens his eyes and tries to gesture unsubtly between me and Eren. Over his shoulder, I notice Historia mouthing something along the lines of: "apologise".

Really? Apologise? Does twelve months of shit, of being whispered about in the corridors, of being glared at across the lecture theatre – does it all get undone just by one half-assed speech?

Internal monologue – who more and more recently has become (shamefully) an internal freckled Jesus – speaks out to me. Forgive and forget, Jean. Be the bigger man. Sort this the fuck out.

"I, uh… I'm sorry," I start slowly, words coming out before I have time to really process them. "About your ribs. And, uh, your _nose_… and everything."

_I don't think I ever hated you. I was just… fucking scared, man_.

Eren grinds his teeth, and for a millisecond I think he's about to explode at my lame-ass apology. But he doesn't. He just sort of bites the inside of his cheek, and scratches the side of his wonky nose.

"Nah, it's cool. My nose looks kinda better this way, right?"

I hear Connie stifle a laugh, and watch Mikasa roll her eyes, as I am struck frozen in disbelief. _What_.

"Mikasa, Eren, why don't you join us?" Armin pipes up, pointing to two of the empty chairs next to him. Apparently _he's_ decided that's good enough. Right.

Mikasa obliges, and Eren seems to let out a massive, pent up sigh of relief as he follows her 'round the table, and slips into one of the hard-backed chairs. Mikasa instantly falls into friendly conversation with Armin, whilst Ymir slaps Eren on the back, and Connie lunges across the table top to punch the guy playfully on the arm.

As for me… uh, well, shell-shocked would probably be an accurate description. Overwhelmed. Speechless.

D-did that just really happen?

Did Eren Jaeger just come up to me and apologise? And did I just apologise right back at him?

I can't put a word on how that makes me feel. I look around the table, and everyone's smiling, chatting, _laughing_. Connie grapples Eren into a noogie, almost sending Ymir's plate of fries flying (luckily she's too quick for that, and saves it, with a fierce growl).

I feel like I need to rub my eyes, clear away this _dream_. This can't really be happening, can it? It's too good to be true. I never thought… I never…

Something twists itself in my gut, and slithers up into my chest. It constricts, wraps its hands around my throat. Ah. Now this is a feeling I've been on good terms with lately.

"H-hey," I say, leaning over to Historia, seeing as she's the closest. "I-I'm just gonna go to the bathroom, so… be right back." She nods, and beams at me – she's so fucking pleased, and I'm so fucking _elated_, and… fuck. Gotta leave.

I basically leg it out of the cafeteria, and high-tail it to the closest bathroom. Fortunately, it's empty, and I go lock myself in one of the stalls, and collapse onto the toilet lid. I deflate. And everything just suddenly overwhelms me.

_Shit. Fuck. Don't cry. You're such a fucking loser. This is a fucking good thing_!

I whip out my cell phone from the pocket of my jeans, and mash the keys into a coherent-enough message.

**To: Marco-Polo  
rlly need to talk to u right now**

To: Marco-Polo  
can i call u

Someone comes into the bathroom, and I hold my breath automatically as I hear them piss in the urinal, run the tap, and then blast the dryer. Feels like the longest piss of my life, Jesus. I draw my legs up onto the lid of the toilet seat, and rest my chin on my knees, staring at the screen of my Samsung like it's an oracle. (It basically is at this moment.)

The door swings shut as the person leaves, and at the same moment, my inbox flashes with a new message.

**From: Marco-Polo  
Sure! Are you okay? Has something happened?**

Trust Marco to worry. He worries a lot.

I don't bother with a reply – instead just slide my thumb across his contact, which dials his number. I press my phone to my ear as it rings. He answers before even the first ring is through (which actually makes me jump).

"Jean? Are you okay? What's up?" Wow, he sounds _concerned_.

_It's okay Marco, I'm alright. It's nothing to worry about. Something really good just happened_. That's what I want to say to him. That's not what comes out though. I just about manage a strangled, choking noise. Fuck.

"Jean? Jean! What's wrong?"

I cup my forehead in my free hand, and try to control the way the lump in my throat is trying to push its way up and out of my mouth. I blink back the stinging in my eyes. I try again.

"I'm… okay." I take a deep breath, and repeat. "I'm okay. I'm great. Marco, I'm really, actually, fucking _great_."

It takes him a minute, because I guess he's trying to figure out if I'm being my usual sarcastic asshole self. I'm not. I think he gets that, because his tone changes a little, becomes less flustered.

"What's happened?"

"It's uh… Eren, he… he started talking to me again. And Mikasa too. I, uh… fuck. Fuck, sorry. I'm just a bit of a mess right now."

There's a (what I guess is) stunned silence – I can only hear the small intake of breath from his end. The sound bristles down the back of my neck.

"… He did?" Marco's voice is really small, but, like, I can _feel_ his smile. I picture that in my head.

"Yep." _He did_.

"Are you with them now?"

"Ah, uh… no… I, uh, had to, uh… I mean, that's really lame, but…"

"I get it. I'm really happy for you, Jean. Really am." My ears feel really warm at that, and I kinda wish there weren't however many miles between me and him. I want to see his expression in person. "You deserve it, Jean."

There I times when I want to ask him what he's thinking. Like, really thinking. Actually, that's most of the time. He's the kinda guy I wouldn't mind spending the whole day talking to. Whole day, whole week, whole _life_. Wouldn't care.

I can't say any of that. So I just sniff loudly, and he laughs.

"Shut up," I hiss down the line. "Stop laughing!"

That has the opposite effect, of course. Marco just laughs more, and I bury my head between my knees with a really stupid grin.

"You're such a loser," he chuckles.

"I know," I reply breathily. "So are you."

"So I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"On my birthday."

"Yeah."

"I'm looking forward to it."

I have to tell him "bye" five times before he agrees to hang-up first. Which is _totally_ not embarrassing. I wait another five minutes 'till the redness in my face goes down and I feel okay about heading back out to the cafeteria.

Armin shoots me a look as I slip back into the plastic chair next to Connie, but he doesn't mention it. I'm glad. I dunno if the others even noticed I scarpered. Doesn't matter. I join in with the conversation, and something nice-feeling swells in my chest.

"Hey, Con," I say, poking him in the shoulder, grabbing his attention from his debate with Ymir over whether beer tastes better in a can or in a bottle. "I, uh… I think it'd be cool if we had this party at my place after all."

The brutal slap on the back, the chorus of deafening whooping, the feeling of being included, finally, _finally_… it feels so damn good.


End file.
